I stood above the trash can, a stash of 0-2 month pacifiers in my hand. We no longer needed them in my home. My three month old baby cooed softly into my neck, reminding me he was growing bigger and stronger every day, and had outgrown the newborn “tacis.” I snuggled my cheek against his soft little head, closed the trashcan, and placed the pile of useless plastic back on the kitchen counter.
My whole recent pregnancy, my husband and I had known it was the last. We had two older children, and had been blessed to get pregnant with each of them when we planned and wanted to. Then we decided to try for a third, because we truly felt a missing child in our hearts. That time, we endured a painful ectopic pregnancy, followed a few months later by a miscarriage, and those two events left a lingering fear that never completely disappeared during my final pregnancy. Pregnancy has never been easy for me, and this time was no different, with 9 month long “morning” sickness, an early scare it could be ectopic again, then later, a blood clot scare, and finally, the feeling that my uterus was literally going to drop out of my body the last trimester. I could barely walk, let alone take care of two toddlers. So we knew: we were done. The whole pregnancy, we reminded ourselves: “This is the last time we’ll first see our baby on a sonogram,” “This is the last glucose test you’ll have to endure,” “This is the last time we’ll feel the baby move for the first time,” and finally, “This is the last time we’re driving to the hospital to have a baby.” The last spinal for my last c-section. The last first cry from his precious, tiny mouth. The last time I held this miracle in my arms for the first time. The last time I nursed this creature I had nurtured for so many months inside of me, now on the outside of the world. So many firsts. And so many lasts.
So we knew we were done. So very done. And all of this was confirmed when, during my third c-section, the doctor poked his head over the curtain and said, “I do not recommend you try for any more pregnancies. Your uterus is done.” We’ve always been ones to heed a doctor’s advice, so what we already knew was solidified: this precious, wailing baby boy in my arms was our last newborn.
But still. Knowing it was our last didn’t necessarily make it any easier. The first physical sign that we were saying goodbye to the last of the firsts was the maternity clothes. I packed them up quickly and dispersed them amongst friends who could still use them and local consignment shops. Then came the diapers. We’d had a stash of diapers left over from our- believe it or not- FIRST baby, and we STILL didn’t make it through the pile this time. As my son outgrew them, I set aside the rest of our size 1 diapers for a local charity. I began sorting baby clothing into tiny little piles of adorableness we no longer needed. And then, the pacis. My son hit three months, and those pacifiers were no longer safe. I immediately collected them and put them in a bowl, on the kitchen counter. The very first day he was too old for them according to the packaging, I brought them to the trash can. And then I brought them back to the bowl. For some reason, those pacifiers were just too real for me. The physical evidence became overwhelming. So the pacifiers sat on the counter.
Tonight, I decided to share my burden. I once again collected the pacifiers in my hand, and I held them up in front of my husband. “I need to throw these away,” I said simply.
Right away, he knew where this was headed. He smiled kindly, but sternly said, “Honey. Look at me. Look at me,” as my eyes filled with tears.
“We said we wouldn’t be sad,” he said, “Look at this baby in my arms. He’s healthy and he’s happy, and we’re so blessed. We need to be grateful, and not be sad.”
I nodded vigorously, as if the effort behind the nodding would be enough to make me believe it. I knew he was right. I KNOW he his right. We are done. We have to be, and we choose to be. But I will also take a moment, now and then, to reflect on how far we’ve come, how far we have left to go, and to grieve the ending of an era for our family. I stood there, still nodding, hand still outstretched full of pacifiers, mutely staring at my baby boy in his father’s arms, for a solid minute.
“Do you want me to do it?” my husband finally asked quietly.
I shook my head. I needed to do this myself. And I will. But maybe not tonight. Maybe tomorrow.
travelingmamabear 