The sound of your scream is so unfamiliar. It’s loud and sharp and so unlike the laughter and shouts that fill you most days.
But it is thundering outside, again. And your scream is one of fear, one so similar to the sound you made as an infant locked in an endless fit of colic.
I run up the stairs and into your room to find you hot and shaking in your crib. Frightened by the noise. So I take you in my arms, arms that no longer seem to hold you the way they used too. Arms you once seemed so small and fragile in.
“Rocker” you say.
And we go and sit in the rocker the way we do in these moments of fear or after your nap when you are still groggy. You press your head against my shoulder and wrap your arms around me. Your legs are long and they squirm to find a place on a rocker that we are outgrowing. The way you are outgrowing so many things these days, clothes, toys, my arms. The change it never ends.
And yet the warmth of your body against mine, the reassurance of your breathing reminds me so much of those early days when all you needed, all you enjoyed, all that could silence those screams was my arms and this rocker.
So I pat your back and whisper in your ear, “Mama’s here, she will always be here, it’s OK the storm will pass”. And you stop shaking and your breathing evens out and we rock back and forth.
And I think of pacifiers and white noise machines and the little movement of your head that used to sooth you. I think of how those days seemed long and unbearable and never ending. I think of how it was in that rocker that we found a rhythm, a way to coexist. How it was in that chair, that I learned just how hard and how rewarding and exhausting motherhood can be.
It was in that rocker that I sat in the weeks before you were born and imagined all these moments with you the sweet lullabies and the story times. I didn’t see these harder moments. I didn’t see the unending crying or the sleepless nights or the cold winter afternoons rocking and hoping and sobbing.
And these days, those memories are dulled, so much by who you are now. And those moments that took my breath away are part of our story just like today is and tomorrow is and just like this rocker is.
aww…so cute! They grow up so fast…but rocking him will be something that will be with you forever!:)
They do grow up too fast.
What a beautiful story Julia! OMG I even got teary eyed..I guess bc I have 4 munchkins myself and can so relate to your post! Awesome, awesome, awesome!
Thank you Julie!
Already teary eyed, it made me once again remember that special place (for me it was stretching out on the long sofa in my living room) that where I would calm my little gems during their moments!!! The endless nights and going into work with raccoon eyes because you barely got three hours of sleep. I wouldn't change it for nothing! I now appreciate those moments (although then I did not want to hear it)
I didn't want to hear it either but I do miss that quiet rocking.
Visiting from Sharefest. This post brought tears to my eyes and reminded me of the nights I spent rocking my twin grand babies while helping out my son and daughter-in-law. Every minute in that rocking chair was a precious gift of time with our little guys. I feel blessed to have shared that time with them.
Thank you for stopping by and I'm glad that this post was a reminder to you of your time with your grandbabies.
Oh, this is so beautiful.
I remember those days of rocking my babies and now my rocker is stored away in my garage. It makes my mama heart sad.
Thank you Shell. I can't imagine parting with our rocker I might just use it as my cozy chair to read in. lol
I love this post! I had a rocker like that with my youngest. I wish I could go back in time and nurse for just one day. Such a precious time. Sniffle, sniffle…
There are those little moments that we all wish we could go back and live again. I like to think I get a little bit of that when he still wants me to rock him.