Tonight is just the same as any other night. It is Sunday in November. But while today is just like any other day, it is completely different – we are about to experience yet another last of the firsts.
My youngest turns 5 tomorrow. Five. I can barely wrap my head around this. And while he has already started school (another last of the firsts, as it was the last time we had a first day of school) this birthday is hitting me harder than most have in the past. Five feels big. It feels like he is no longer my baby, but this little tiny human who has this whole life that I am no longer a part of.
He is my last baby. I am not having any more. He completed our family. He was the last time I would be on the maternity floor at a hospital. He was the last bottle made for a 2am feeding. He was the last first time rolling over. He was the last time learning to crawl. He was the last first steps. He was the last first tooth. He was the last first giggle. He was the last first night in a big bed. He was the last first time riding a bike. He was the last first lost tooth. He was the last first day of school.
He is the last of the firsts.
And I know we have a lot of firsts to go through; not only with him, but with our other 2 boys (and there are firsts coming with them, as they are 11 and 13!! those are new firsts that I am not quite prepared for!!!) it is really sad to be closing the chapter on the first firsts. The baby firsts. The tiny heads and sweet noises, and the immense pride that you can only feel when you watch your tiny human do something for the first time; something you take for granted, like smiling, laughing, talking, walking, not shitting your pants…
He is turning 5. I remember where I was at this time 5 years ago. I had just dropped my older two off for the week, as I knew I was having a C-section on Tuesday morning. My husband (then boyfriend, because we like to do things out of order, and don’t conform to what society says is right and proper, and also because I swore I would never get married again..) and I had our entire day planned, for our last day without our baby. He came home from work, we watched SportsCenter (as we always did in the mornings), I went downstairs to get some cereal and wanted sugar, but the only sugar we had was that stupid paper bag of Rogers sugar, and it was on the top shelf of the pantry. I grabbed it and it fell on me, and exploded all over the kitchen. I remember laughing hysterically as I called Trevor to come rescue me from my current sticky predicament. We laughed, I ate, and then showered. And while he was getting out of the shower, he smashed his baby toe on the edge of the tub, and busted it wide open. This maybe isn’t something normal to remember, but it comes out again in the story. Then his mother showed up, as she was planning on coming to the hospital the next day, as she had never been in the room for a grandchild being born (she wouldn’t again, as I was being cut open in surgery, but she would see him when he was only hours old, which was a first for her) and I had a sip of hot chocolate, but it didn’t taste right, so I dumped the rest out. We then piled into her car to go do my pre-reg at the hospital, as I would be there too early the next day to register. They hooked me up to the little baby heartrate ticker thing (three kids, no idea what it is actually called) and the nurse looked at me and said “wow. you’re having quite a few contractions!” and I just laughed and told her they had been happening all weekend, but I had been getting them since August. She then told me that she wanted to do an internal to see if I was actually in labor. Trevor and his mom stepped out, only to be called back in by my shouting “as if!” as the nurse told me I was more than 4cm dilated, and would be having my son that day. This came as a shock to us all, as we didn’t have a bag packed, didn’t have anything ready, didn’t even have our truck!! We had planned on going to see Harold and Kumar, and for dinner, then planned on packing our bag that night. Beauty of having a planned C-section; there really is very little guess work. Or so we thought.
Trevor left in a mad rush, as I was taken upstairs and prepped for surgery. I stood in the hallway, pacing while waiting for my nurse, and made a bunch of phonecalls to tell my family and closest friends that our son was coming a day early. It ended up being kind of awesome, though, as my older 2 were both born on the 7th, and now, so would my third. We lived 20 minutes away from the hospital, and he had to pack all of our stuff, and rush back. He got there just as I was being wheeled out of the room ( he would have been there sooner, to you know, support and calm me down, but he stopped for pepsi… ahem) and within a half an hour, our baby was there, in our arms, and smack dab in the middle of our hearts. The 3 days we spent in the hospital was filled with its own drama and bs, none of which needs to be recalled or revisited.. except Trevor’s aforementioned toe, which reaked havoc the whole time we were there, as the nurses weren’t able to give him a bandaid, because HE wasn’t a patient. His toe bled for the whole week. Note to self: beware toe damage – that shit bleeds forever!
And now, here I sit, remembering his tiny perfect head, his beautiful little baby lips, his tiny little noises, and how much my heart exploded when I got to hold him the first time.
The last time I held my baby for the first time. The last time I brought a new baby home from the hospital. The last time I spent hours trying to figure out how to make his formula, work the bottle warmer and the bottle sterilizer (so much was supposed to be done that last night! haha) The last time we would have a brand new baby at home for the first time. The last time we got to show off our new baby.
The last of the firsts. I know there are lots of other firsts, but this chapter is officially closed. He is going to be 5. To some, that may not seem like a big deal, but to me, it is.
My last baby.