Eulogy for a Carseat

“You can just set that anywhere on the floor over there”

I looked down at the empty infant carseat awkwardly dangling from my hand. Then I stared back to the impersonal floor space I had been directed to in Babies R Us. I paused. I felt like this space required a ceremony or a eulogy in the least. I was turning the carseat in for practical reasons: a trade-in that would give me credit towards a bigger carseat. But surrendering that carseat was anything but practical; it was deeply personal.

I took a deep breath and recalled the circus it took to even get this carseat five and a half years prior. Armed with a stack of gift cards from my baby shower, I pooled them together to order an infant carseat online. We were already pushing the limits, being only four weeks from my due date with our first child, so I hopped online and clicked “confirm order”. A few days later, a UPS truck pulled up, and two delivery men swiftly plopped an awkwardly large box on the porch. And then they took off before I could even say “thank you”.

The box was narrow and tall, not exactly the size I expected for a carseat box. Considering it took two strapping men to bring it to the porch, I started to wonder what kind of carseat this could be. We opened the box and peered inside. “I don’t think this is a carseat”. It took some more digging and “assembly instruction” finding to figure it out: it was a futon! That’s right. A futon. On our porch.

After hours on the phone with the online store’s customer service, we found out there was pretty much nothing they could do for us . They actually expected me (at eight months pregnant), to haul this futon into my car and drive it to a UPS store to process it for a return. Um…no. There’s no way that box could even fit in a sedan.

So, we decided to head to our local store instead. Thanks to our neighbor’s generosity to borrow their pick-up, we now had a reasonable means of moving the bulky delivery. As much as the corporate customer service made us want to pull our hair out, I have to say the customer service at our local store was superb. After we all shared a laugh about the mix-up and made jokes about trying to install a futon in a car, they graciously took in the futon as a return and credited us the amount of the futon! Score! Not only did we have enough for a different carseat, we had a mini shopping spree that night. We picked up groceries, Christmas decorations, and there were probably some new clothes in there too.

We arrived home, grateful and exhausted and armed with an entertaining story to tell our coming child about the gymnastics it took to get a carseat.

But that coming child would never get to hear that story. We never got to tuck him into that carseat and bring him home. On Christmas Day, just six days before my due date, we heard those words that changed life forever: “I’m sorry. There’s no heartbeat”.

Our son, Asa Timothy, was born the next day, handsome, precious and forever loved.

We drove home in a quiet car, the carseat tossed in the trunk to mute the sharpness of our pain. That empty carseat mocked us, as did the empty crib and silent nights. Eventually, all the baby items were stored away, though with the hope that someday, we would need them again…

Our daughter entered our longing arms on a beautiful morning, poetically on the cusp of spring. Fourteen months had passed since we had buried our son. Fourteen months of deep grief and pain, yet refining growth and budding hope. We took up that same carseat with such pride. Gingerly, we buckled her in. I think it took about six hands and thirty minutes to make sure she was in just right that first time. And for the next several months, we traveled across the country multiple times, adjusting those carseat straps as she grew.

Nearly three years later, we snuggled our bright-eyed son into that same carseat. Our second son, our second December baby. We were now veteran parents, and all the buckling and maneuvering was old hat. Big sister, now close to three years old, held that carseat handle proudly helping us to bring baby brother home.

Now that newborn baby was a toddler, grown out of the infant car seat, and it was time to upgrade. So, I stood, subtly swinging that bulk of carseat in my hand. Unsure if I could let go.

Marie Kondo invites her clients to gratitude when giving items away. So, thank you. Thank you Carseat, for giving us a comical story. Thank you for saving your space while we grieved and waited in hope. Thank you for being a safe place for my babies while we ran errands, took road trips and rocked you back and forth to get them to sleep while we were out. Thank you for the memories.

“Thank you,” I whispered. And I let go.