The title might be misleading, because I never really had the baby blues, before or after pregnancy. Holding little ones never really make me long for “just one more”, and I was spared, mercifully, from that depression that plagues some women after child birth.
Rather, recently my youngest flew south all by herself to visit friends. I did my parental duty before hand, encouraging her and reminding her that she was smart and level headed. It might be the last opportunity she had to do this for a long time, with college and other life changes on the horizon. My husband ran her down to Logan in the early morning hours and waved goodbye as she entered the terminal by herself, ready for her adventure.
I slept in.
I was looking forward to 10 days of no running back and forth to lessons and to work. (our children don’t get a license until 18) There would be less cleaning up and fewer impromptu but suddenly urgent trips to Wal Mart, or Target or Hannaford. I would blissfully engage in whatever activity I wanted, whenever I wanted. And I did enjoy my week off, but you have probably already guessed how this story ends. It ends with me, discovering that I miss running her around, that my dear husband makes more messes than I realized, and missing my Baby. Not wishing her back, mind you, but just being reminded of the energy and vitality that leaves along with the person that carries it through life and missing all those little things that add up to being her.