It’s Monday, December 20, and I am exhausted. My youngest child, 17 months old, is snuggled tightly against my breast while I rock her and sing to her before laying her in her crib to sleep.

Because it is near Christmas, I decide to sing “Silent Night.” She places her tiny hand on my throat to feel the vibrations of the notes as they leave my vocal cords. As an alto (though my college voice professor would disagree) the range is my most comfortable. I sing a few verses, then start over because I don’t know any more.

As I reprise the first verse, tears creep to the edges of my eyes. It will be the last Christmas I’ll rock one of my babies. Next year, the baby I’m now rocking will be 2.5, and given her fierce independence, I doubt by then she’ll let me.

I lend my focus to the words of the carol.

Silent night, holy night. 

All is calm, all is bright. 

This rocking chair is the place where I rocked my very first baby five years ago, where I struggled and settled my way into motherhood. Its worn, nubby fabric cradled me in the hundreds of sacred hours of feeding, comforting, and bonding with the tiny soul I had created.  

Round yon virgin, mother and child. 

Holy infant, so tender and mild. 

My first baby grew, and then came the second. Same chair, different house; same motions, a few new songs, a more seasoned mother. Then he, too, grew. I can’t believe after all that time, I couldn’t tell you the last day I rocked each of the boys. Maybe I wasn’t focused on it because I knew (hoped) we’d have one more.

And finally the third, our daughter. We haven’t had our final rock together yet, though I know it, too, will come. In the midst of sleep deprivation from teething, the stress of the holidays, and other things happening in our lives, I have often found myself longing for this last baby to be a bit older, just so I could rest at night a bit more.

And then, this night of December 20 whispered tenderly: Dear Mother, these might not be silent nights, but they are holy nights.

Sleep in heavenly peace.

Sleep in heavenly peace. 

I finally bit the bullet and bought myself a new bathing suit.

It was sort of about not wanting to spend the money on myself. But mostly not.

It was really about wanting to wait until I felt worthy of buying a new bathing suit.

As I write this, I have a four-year-old, three-year-old, and ten month old., and my body shows it. I am still 15-20 lbs – I mean, let’s just go ahead and say 20 lbs – heavier than I was before I got pregnant with my third. With the other two, by this point I was more or less back to (my new) normal. Not this time. Exhaustion, tortilla chips at 10 pm, exclusively breastfeeding and putting myself last are the main culprits. My body is wider and softer than ever.

Summer was approaching, and I wanted to take the kids to the beach. I dreaded the thought of it because what on earth would I wear to play in the sand and jump in the waves? I wanted to take them swimming after months of slogging back and forth to swim lessons, but how could I get in the pool with no swim clothes to wear?

So, I googled things like “postpartum swimsuit” and several hours of research and hemming and hawing later, I purchased three to try and kept one that I didn’t completely hate.

Deep breath. I have something to wear that fits my body right now. It’s ok.

It turns out the world didn’t crumble when I bought I swimsuit that didn’t fit the body I wished I had, but rather the one I was living in now. (Imagine that.)

On Mother’s Day, we decided to take the kids to the beach. We threw together towels, toys, and snacks and I went to get myself ready. It felt nice to put something on that fit around my curves. This will do, I thought. Deep breath.

At the beach, the kids had a blast. Everything was covered in sand and I chased my fearless 10 month old around the beach blanket and to the very edge where the waves just barely kissed the sand. It was a messy but truly wonderful beach trip, punctuated by me feeling my body in a swimsuit and not loving it.

I could see the weirdness of it all as it played out in front of me. I felt my heart nearly burst while watching my three babies and my beautiful partner play in the sand, while also being uncomfortable in my body, while also wondering how can I possibly let my body keep me from enjoying the beauty of these gifts?

Toward the end of the stay, I sat damp and sandy-bottomed with my family, took another deep breath of salty air, and told myself: They will remember that Mom took them to the beach, that she played with them in the sand, and watched them jump in the waves. That is what matters most.

I will remember my babies at one of my favorite places in the world, squealing with joy and giddy with ideas for sand structures. I’ll never forget how much my babiest baby loved her first time in the sand and waves. That matters, too.

To be candid, when I look at the photos of that day I will probably also remember the million little battles I fought to get the bathing suit I wore that day, to put it on, and to feel my body in it while we scooped and ran and splashed.

But I will also feel pride because I will remember that I loved my family and myself enough to take the body I had, to play with the family it created, to live out a day I had once only dreamed of.