A Goodbye Letter to My Babies

— -- Editor's note: This article originally appeared on HowDoesShe.com. In it, Nicolette McKinlay writes about the painful decision to stop having children. It has been reprinted here with permission.

Today marks the bittersweet end of an era. Today, I’m closing a chapter in my life that has lasted six years and yielded me four precious little beings -- little bodies that I harbored safely within my own for a combined 160 weeks. Perfect little people that share my eyes, their dad’s nose, and have brought me joy beyond compare.

Today I’m saying goodbye to my sweet babies.

Forgive me as I try to adequately voice a topic that has weighed so heavily on my mind for many months now: accepting the decision that you are done having children.

No one ever told me that the decision to stop having children would be just as significant as the decision to start having them. No one warned me about how difficult it would be to let go, or about the emotions that come in waves, bathing me in relief, then uncertainty; elation, then nostalgia. Although I know it is time, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m leaving behind something so precious, so innocent -- something I will never hold in my arms again.

So today, for my babies, and for yours, I write a goodbye letter. One you can read in the quiet moments between dusk and daylight. One you can read to your babies while they sleep, or to your busy toddlers in the rare moments they will sit quietly in your lap. Read it when your teens are late for curfew and you are worried sick because you love them so much. Read it on your daughter’s wedding day, or your son’s deployment. Read it on the day they leave the house and you are left with only the quiet memory of their tiny bodies nestled safely in your arms. Because no matter how big they get, no matter where they go, they will always and forever be our babies.

To My Dear, Sweet Babies,

I remember the day you were born so clearly. I peeked into heaven and there you were Your lips parted, nose twitched, eyes opened for the first time, searching for me. Your mommy. I gazed deep into them and realized, I knew you all along. Your body so tiny, yet so strong, wiggled to get to me. They laid you gently in my arms and time stopped, the ground beneath me shifted, and my entire life changed.

My heart opened wide to let you in. One thing I am certain of: I will love you forever.

That first night at home with you, I rocked you to sleep, in the wee hours of night when the house was silent and the moonlight glistened off your soft skin. You fit perfectly in the crook of my neck and I drank in your angelic baby smell and nuzzled my nose against your soft little ear lobe.

I want you to know I was there for you, all through those nights, when you were scared of your new place, or when your tummy hurt, or when you needed someone to talk to. I fell asleep on the floor by your crib so many times, just making sure you were breathing.