I found an old nipple shield tonight when I went to read you a bedtime story.

It was tucked away in the side pocket of the glider chair.

I used to feed you in this chair.

Now I sit here and read you bedtime stories. And even though some people say you’re too big, I still rock you at night.

It’s our special time.

This isn’t really about the nipple shield.

When I saw it, my heart broke a little.

My eyes filled with tears, and I quietly tucked it away so you wouldn’t ask me what was wrong.

Because it’s not just the nipple shield.

It’s how much you’ve grown in just a couple of years.

It’s the fact that you’ll be three this year.

Three.

How is that even possible?

It’s not just the nipple shield.

It’s that I used to feed you from my own body.

I used to be what nourished you.

We used to share that bond that only a mother and baby can understand.

Sometimes I wish I could go back and do it all again.

Not because I didn’t struggle.

Not because I loved every second.

But because now I understand just how quickly those seconds disappear.

Sometimes when we’re rocking at night and you’re curled up on my chest, I can almost convince myself you’re still my little baby.

For a moment, time stands still.

And it hurts.

But it makes me happy at the same time.

It’s a strange kind of ache—the kind that comes from loving someone so much that watching them grow feels both beautiful and heartbreaking.

So no, it wasn’t really the nipple shield I found in your chair tonight.

It was the memories.

The late-night feedings.

The sleepy cuddles.

The version of you that only existed for a little while.

Memories I’ll cherish forever, even if I didn’t always appreciate them in the moment.

Because now I know what every mother means when she says it goes by too fast.

And somehow, even after all this time, a forgotten nipple shield can still remind me of that.