The one who came last

25 August 2013

I wrote my Five Minute Friday with pen in my car on this Sunday afternoon. I knew I wanted to write this prompt, and I knew what I wanted to write, but between my birthday and his and summer break and life and work, everyday is a blur and sitting for just those five minutes to write about him didn't seem fair. Until today, whilst Asher slept.

Some days you sit in a car with a sleeping child because this is the only moment of peace in your day. He is a blur, in pictures and in your mind, so that when he is stilled - peach lips parted, chest gently rising, not even a sound escaping - you don't dare move for fear of missing it.

Yesterday was his birthday and the age of 4 betrays the fact that today he is still your baby. 

He is the one who came quickest, the one who came last, the only one to come without being prodded with pitocin. He's the one who came in a white wrought iron bed, the one whose eyes first blinked at the Irish sun, the one born by the sea. He's the one you felt the most, far from home and without so much as a drop of tylenol, so that when he was placed on your chest, fresh and wild from the womb, you forgot what you had fought so hard for, for only that moment.

The midwife said, "Look, your son." And you asked, "My son?"

Yes, that's right. Four years and so many suns and moons ago. Two continents and half a dozen homes ago.

My son came in a blur; quick, and last.


Sometimes on Fridays I write, with Lisa-Jo Baker and her gypsy friends. Join us here.


  1. My God, this is lovely.

    I came here because you were last. The last one to post for FMF. I always feel a little sorry for the last one, because there's no one after you to give you the love that others get. (That coveted top row spot!)

    I'm so glad I did. Thank you.

    If you're inclined, my post is at

    1. Thank you so much for the kind comment and for taking pity on my poor last self. :)

  2. Oh I love this! It seems that with my 4th son, my last, I am much more inclined to hold him close and breath him in, every last bit of babyhood. He is 13 months, and my husband told me that we should put him on a sippy cup. I told him that I am not ready yet. I need more time to stare into his eyes while he sits still long enough for a bottle.
    Thanks for the beautiful words straight from my own heart!

    1. Thanks for the comment, Dalaina! I think you're right... usually it's those final one or two babies where you realize what wasn't such a big deal and what is... and then you're able to rest and enjoy it a bit more, I think. Maybe. I don't know - still learning/trying to, anyway! :)