The Last Cradle

A friend gave us this cradle when her last babe was done with it, so it wasn't even one that I used for all of my babies.

First, for Ethan, there was a bassinet; a garage sale find.

Next was a crib; a hand-me-down from folks at church.

By the time Adam was a few months old I'd gotten rid of it because we had taken to co-sleeping, and the crib was just a place to pile blankets.

But when Ellie was on her way I found a little swinging Jenny Lind cradle at a second hand store and brought it home.  After losing the baby before her, it was my way of affirming that it would be okay to plan for the happy arrival of this little one.

It lasted through Tessa, and then was decommissioned.  A little too rickety.

But then Jonah made his way into the world, and this cradle, this last cradle, made it's way into our house, well loved and used by my friend Nicole for her littles turned bigs.

And at our home, the cradle was again well used.  Jumbo Jonah insisted on catching his zzz's in it till he had to bend his knees to fit. And then tiny Natalie, who I tended to place into it more often for the sake of all of our sleep (because of her ability to place her left foot in my spleen while her right occupied Guy's armpit), used it until not so long ago.

A few months ago the big girls got a bunk bed with a twin on top and a full sized mattress on the bottom, and Ellie began stealing Natalie away at bedtime to share her lower bunk, apparently undaunted by Natalie's nighttime calisthenics.

******

I don't know when the last night slipped by that my last baby had her last dream in the little wooden cradle.  It just happened one day.  One morning I simply realized that the cradle hadn't been used in... days? weeks? I wasn't sure.

I sat on the floor by my bed, folding the jumble of baby blankets it held into a tidy, still pile. The kind of pile that is waiting for a cupboard or a box, and not a chubby little person.  I cried a little, and pressed the cloth into my face trying to catch a hint, a whiff, of my babies there.

But I couldn't.

I left the cradle, with it's pile of carefully folded blankets, there for a few weeks, a month, or maybe two, telling myself there was no place in the garage for it.  And then one day Guy suggested we move it out.

"Don't rush me." I said.

I'm not ready to say goodbye to this last little cradle. I thought.

*****

Then one day a few weeks ago I finally moved it out of our room.  Natalie is 3 after all.  But I firmly informed Guy not to get any fancy notions of sending it off to Goodwill, that my grandbabies WOULD be sleeping in it, and that until that time, it would be waiting.

Waiting to hold babies again.

There is something so impossibly hard about saying goodbye to baby days.  I have been rocking babies for nearly 20 years.  It's who I am now.  It's my identity.  I'm a mommy.  Not just a mom, but a mommy.  A nose wiping, back stroking, booty patting, weep comforting, sleep coaxing mommy.

And cradle or not, I always will be.

Natalie on her new toddler bed.

No Strings Attached

It was meant to be

breakfast in bed.

It ended up as breakfast after the shower.

No strings attached, just my girls bein' sweet to me.

On Sunday I lost my voice.

On Monday I could whisper.

On Tuesday I could croak.

And though I was feeling much better by Wednesday,

the girls decided to take pity on me, all out of the kindness of their sweet,

and in no way cunning or manipulative little hearts.

You feel it coming, don't you?

Smell that little wiff of  rat?

Come with me now to 15 minutes after I swallow my last chunk of apple.

Ellie tenderly asks, "Mama, do I get a kindness bead for making you breakfast?"

*

Huh.

Just when you thought you were doing something right as a parent.

Yes, this week we re-instituted the bead jars.  Beads = kid currency.  Earn one by doing your jobs.  2 kindness beads = 1 bead.  Earn kindness beads by being caught doing a good deed.

*

I hear Tessa is planning to make me a get well lunch tomorrow.

'Can't wait.

****

Don't forget to come by tomorrow (or Saturday.  It's OK, I know you're busy.  I'll wait up for ya').

The Studio is so fancy you could eat fudge off of it. 

I made you some really cute snowman earrings.

I'll save 'em for ya'.

My Ark

Adam, age 5

Story I

In the book of Samuel in the Old Testament, there is a story of a man named Uzzah who was helping to transport the Ark of the Covenant to the City of David.  In the moment when the ark was to be placed on the threshing floor of Nachon, the oxen shook the ark.  And in that moment, Uzzah, believing, I suppose, that his help was needed,

 reached out to steady the ark. 

If you know your Old T, you know that our friend Uzzah

realized a moment too late that when God says don't touch the ark, he means it.

I believe the word was "smote". 

The point is, God didn't need Uzzah's help. 

It was not Uzzah's job to steady the ark.

I tell this story, only so that I can tell you another story.  Well, two, actually. 

Story II

As anyone who has been pregnant can attest, once the world knows you are pregnant, somehow everyone from the obstetrician to the lady at the cell phone kiosk in the mall seems to own some part of your experience.  Never was this more true than when I became pregnant with Adam.  My decision to have a natural, non-surgical birth after my first-born's cesarean was quite the fodder for raised eyebrows.  But when it became public knowledge that we were going to have a homebirth, somehow it was like there was a welcome mat draped atop my bulging bump that said,

 "Please, express any opinion you have about homebirth,

and make sure it is peppered with judgement about my mental well being

 and my capacity to make safe choices regarding my child." 

After each of my successive homebirths, the dissenting voices receded into their opinion caves.  Oh, I still would hear about them from time to time, (the ol' telephone game) just not directly. 

I have gotten used to being a bit counter-culture. 

We don't circumcise, and we co-sleep, but those are things the world at large doesn't see. 

I also nurse my children, modestly but openly,

and for at least two years a'piece. 

You want to get a dirty look from a 50 year old woman

at your local mid-priced eatery,

nurse a toddler.

It's cool. 

So far, none of my kids has had bottle rot,

an intense attachment to an object or, surprisingly,

 an obsession with breasts.  Not yet anyway.

*

Story III

It has been a while since I have had anyone step right up and challenge my parenting choices outside of a pediatrician here and there.  This week, though, I was reminded about how it feels to have your mother-heart called into question.  Someone we know learned that we would be homeschooling, and passionately opposing my choice, sought me out to let me know. 

In the few days since,

I have milled,

pondered,

 fretted,

stressed,

and meditated

about it all. 

A lot.

Here is what I have come to:

I love it that sometimes in life we get the opportunity to reconfirm to ourselves what we know to be true.

I am grateful that I have been given the blessing of these five sweet lives to shepherd,

and that God has trusted me to do all that I can to lead them

 in a way that teaches them that they are His.

I am blessed that I live in a land that allows me to decide, based on the uniqueness

of each sweet, individual spirit, how to best lead my small ones

on the path to a lifetime of joyful learning.

I am confident in my choices thus far, and I know that if, at some point in the future,

they need to change, I can do that confidently, too.

My husband loves, trusts and supports me

(was there any doubt? Never, but still, after 16 years, it's nice to have reminders).

I am surrounded by others who trust and support me, too.

*

Sometimes there are arks that don't need to be steadied.