My first baby had his first sleepover this weekend.
He was excited and nervous and worried about saying goodbye to me, which basically sums up E.’s reaction to most new things.
Q. and I weren’t sure if we were going to have to go and get him, but he had a fantastic time.
My last baby is in her last week of being a baby.
Every time E. does something new I’m reminded, again, that we will get a second chance to experience those firsts.
And every time P. does something new, I am reminded, again, that her firsts are also my lasts, for she is, truly, our last baby (despite E.’s insistence that we should have a third child because he’s “not done being a brother”).
She is the baby we never thought we were going to have, so every one of her firsts brings with it this complicated mix of emotions.
Gratitude. Grief. Nostalgia. Anticipation.
I am excited, so excited to see the little person she is in the process of becoming.
But it is bittersweet.
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Res Cogitatae 
It is bittersweet to see them getting so big and not need you as much. My first baby is likely my last.
That is bittersweet, to definitively know the built-in “lasts” but also what is coming down the road that you’ll get to enjoy a second time.