Every one of her firsts will be a last for me.

The last time I’ll see my baby’s first smile.

The last time I’ll hear my baby’s first word.

The last time I’ll watch my baby’s first step.

Each stage that passes will be one that I won’t get to do over.

Formula to solid foods.

Bottle to sippy cup.

From diapers to pull ups.

Already, I can tell that it is all moving so fast. I knew it would. I mean, I look at my ten year old and think when did this lovely young lady show up and where is the pudgy baby that I would take to Wednesday night suppers at church and parade around as if no one had ever seen a baby before? Could we all just slow down a minute, for crying out loud?

But, alas, the days keep passing and the newbornness of my baby is gone and she’s all coos and drools. Something inside me is screaming more babies, more babies and I think why not? Then, I remember the conversation with the doctor and the look on her face {following the fifth c-section} when she said, “We really can’t take you apart and put you back together anymore.” Apparently, I am not a Mr. Potato Head. Since I really do not want to have to carry my bladder in my purse, {because, as my ten year old pointed out, what in the world would I do if someone stole my purse?} I know that I am done.

So, here I am, packing up baby clothes. Something I have done many times in the past ten years but, this time, instead of putting them in the attic, they will go into my van and be driven to a donation center. And someone else’s baby will be wearing a onesie that says My First Christmas.