How to say goodbye….to a chair

I remember it like it was yesterday. Waking up to get ready for work. Checking the calendar to see if it was still too soon. And then just going for it. 

And that agonizing minute of waiting. Should I look? Should I watch it the whole time? Or do I just time it and then look?

And then all of the sudden the minute is up and instead of a blank hole that little white box is filled with two little pink lines.  And I’m late for work and literally forcing myself not to cheesily grin all through our staff meeting so everyone isn’t asking me why I’m so deliriously happy. 

One minute. Two lines.  Forever changed. 

The next few months were spent in blissful anticipation of our sweet baby. Nothing excited me more than planning and dreaming of his nursery. Blues and greens and touches of soft white. Airplanes and pelicans. Sweet little outfits ready and waiting in the closet. 

I’ll never forget sitting in my nursing chair after I brought him home. I remember nursing him and holding his little hands. They were so soft. I cried one of those first nights thinking about the fact that someday they’d be bigger than mine. Rough. Possibly scarred from a childhood fall. Grown up hands.

In the next house we spent a lot of time reading in this chair. We stood on it so we could look out of the window to see the Puget Sound. We waved to Daddy when he came back from his deployment. We learned to share our space when another little boy brightened our lives. 

Eventually we moved it to our bedroom. Baby number three had arrived. And I spent countless tearful nights fretting because she wouldn’t eat. Trying to practice nursing while a 2 and 3 year old wrestled around my feet. It sat in front of my mirror and I often caught a glimpse of my tired self. It was starting to fade a bit. But there was still plenty of room to rock. To read. To cuddle. 

It moved again with us to Illinois. And sat silently while I desperately treaded the waters of life for our first year. So many tears. So much heartbreak. And then like a faithful friend held me up for hours and hours night after night as I struggled yet again to feed my newborn. It’s comfortable arms there as a reminder of how far I’d come. How far we’d come. 

It journeyed overseas and back. Offering a spot each day for a naptime story, nursing before bedtime and a comfy spot for guests as they explored Italy. And then all of the sudden, the baby wasn’t a baby anymore. And there was no one to nurse. No new little one to welcome into the family. No tears to dry. 

It’s so dirty. You can barely tell what color it was 11 short years ago. Grubby hands. Milk. Tears. Memories. They all cover it. And I know as we begin to pack up for the next chapter that it’s probably time to close this one. To welcome a new reading chair. 

But I’m just not sure I can. It feels like saying goodbye to an old friend. A constant and loyal companion. It feels like admitting that I’ll never bear another child. And while I know it’s true, there’s something about getting rid of the chair that makes it feel so final. Like an ugly rite of passage. 

So for today, for this moment, I rest in it’s arms. I revel in its secrets. I remember the things that it’s seen. And thank God for the good, the bad and everything in between. 

It’s been almost 12 years since I took that test, but today it just feels like yesterday.