What I do remember is the distinct feeling of claustrophobia, from all the holding and rocking and not-co-sleeping, sometimes with a baby literally attached to me. I just wanted to breathe and sleep without a teeny heel stuck in my side or a sweaty head firmly planted in the crook of my arm.
At first my brain had a hard time processing the longing in my heart to have them back snuggled up next to me, their hot breath on my face. The light snore of their stuffy little nose in my ear.
But now, it's like I never had babies. And a whole piece of my history, the story of motherhood that I clung to so deeply and identified with, the sleepless mom with sore arms and bruised side, is gone.
I heard rumors of this transition, urban myths (or so I thought) spread by been-there-done-that parents clinging like I am now to those memories and moments that I know now will pass. Then change, to become new memories and moments.
Where little children cuddle in your bed and actually sleep, their now slightly bigger heel still in your side. Still attached to you. But in a different, better way.
They still need me, but not like before.
I'm okay with that. I think. Or at least, I'll have to be.