Sorting through Caramia's outgrown baby things -- all of those darling pajama gowns, knit booties, and tiny onesies -- I find myself dwelling not on firsts, but lasts. Did I know just a week ago, when I snapped her into that butter-yellow footed romper, that she'd be wearing it for the last time? How quickly she's growing! Though I should realize by now that infancy passes in a wink, I'm still stunned to not find a newborn sleeping in her bed. She's twenty-six inches long now, and just recently succeeded in properly crawling forward for the first time. She hasn't any teeth yet, but they're coming. Soon she'll flash her last gummy smile. Will I know it when I see it? First things get all the best sort of attention, especially when you're a parent. First steps, first words, first night of blissfully uninterrupted sleep. First day of school, first report card, first kiss. Firsts are undeniably wonderful occasions that ought to be celebrated with cheers and applause. Lasts though, can't help feeling melancholy. Endings are always sad, even the ones meant to herald the much-promised happily ever after. We sob our way through graduations and weddings, and though we call them tears of joy, in our hearts we know that we're really crying not just because something wonderful has begun, but also because something important and profound has ended. Knowing that Caramia is my last baby makes me feel sad in a way that I never expected. Having grown used to the warmth and weight of a baby in my arms, it seems odd to imagine that very soon these arms will be empty. If there's anything more life affirming than the feeling of cradling an infant, I haven't found it. In fact, babies are just all-around good medicine: who could possibly remain sad or angry with a plump, beaming baby on their lap? Caramia is a particularly jolly little soul, full of smiles and giggles. She loves to be tickled and bounced, grinning with delight at any bit of attention. Lately she's been especially pleased with herself, crawling, sitting and even, to our dismay, pulling up and standing. The pediatrician says that she'll probably be an early walker -- which means her snuggly, cuddly, riding-on-my-hip baby days will soon be over. Caramia is an ideal second baby. Meaning, I needed some serious training and practice with Olivia before she came along. Nursing was more of a challenge this time, complicated by the fact that Caramia prefers to lie down while she eats. Try doing that in a restaurant. As a result, we've been a little more housebound. She sleeps like an angel, except for a restless period every night about three a.m. when she abruptly awakes and begins screaming like the devil himself. Between her furious shrieking and the dog's senile yodeling, the predawn hours at our house feel like one long insane fire drill. Olivia never cried in the night, not even once. We were pretty smug about that -- until Caramia decided to put us in our place. Now my husband and I trade reports like sentries at shift change. He asks what time she last nursed, or tells me how long he walked her before she drifted off. When she was ill with her first cold and viral infection, fever making her as hot as a roast chicken, we passed her back and forth in the night, none of us getting much rest. Too worried about our tiny baby to sleep, we drifted through foggy days and nights, fumbling for thermometers, Tylenol, and Motrin. It doesn't matter how common an illness is. When your baby stares at you with glazed, listless eyes, when the heat of her skins burns your hand, you panic. It is every bit as awful the last time it happens as it was the first. It's a part of parenting that you never get used to. Something you do get used to, though it's hard, is the simple fact that it's virtually impossible to complete any task. Everything is almost finished: the laundry, the dishes, your makeup, a phone call. The formula is easy: Life + Baby = Interruption The more advanced math looks like this: Life + Baby + Toddler = Interruption X 10 And: When Sanity/Patience(Fatigue) is < 0, then Life = Unimaginable Mayhem Mayhem pretty much describes our house for the last three weeks. Caramia's sickness, coupled with Olivia's determination to test every possible boundary means that we are no longer coherent or rational. I asked my brother the other day how on earth he'd ever managed with five children. His response? You don't manage five kids; they manage you. Maybe that's true for kids, period. I keep reminding myself that this part will soon pass. Eventually Caramia will sleep through the night. Soon Olivia will be potty trained. In a blink they'll both be in school, busy with activities and friends, and mortified to acknowledge me or their dad in public. Until that day comes, I've got all I can handle just making it through the next few hours. I'd be reduced to babbling to myself like a lunatic, if I wasn't already so busy thanking God in His infinite wisdom for not giving me twins. As for Caramia's last gummy grin? Her first tooth broke through four days after I began writing this. Next stop kindergarten...