The garbage man came yesterday which is always a big deal if you have a young boy in your house. But it was a big deal for me too because I hauled a forlorn and dilapidated changing table out to the curb. This changing table was bought at a garage sale fifteen years ago when I was pregnant with India, my first baby. It was dark “wood” (really just crappy particle board) that we painted white. It has survived–barely–all of our other babies (by “survived” I mean “still upright but not quite usable”). When we moved here we still had two in diapers so I put it in our main floor bathroom. I’ve left it there even though we no longer need it just because, well, because I couldn’t part with it. It means the end of an era.
I know I say that every time I get rid of a high chair or baby clothes or sippy cups. But every little thing I get rid of makes me feel sad about that newborn-new mom phase of life that I will never go through again. Sadly I think it’s impossible to appreciate the magicalness of that phase until it’s over.
But then I think about how grody the changing table was once the pad was removed. It was completely stained yellow. Ewww. That table has seen more than its share of pee and poop and meconium and explosive-newborn-seedy-diarrhea. Probably some barf too.
And then I realized that I haven’t had to wipe any bums in a couple of weeks and I got a huge smile on my face. And then I hung up some really cute pictures that I bought at the Round Top Antiques Fair last year. They are in the exact spot where the changing table used to be. So much nicer than tacky particle board with a sagging top and broken legs.
So I carried the changing table out to the curb with York, the second baby to use it, and we kicked the table into a dozen pieces, then watched while the big jaws of the garbage truck finished the job for us.
It was kind of exhilarating.