One of the very first gifts we received for our first little bundle of joy was our glider / rocking chair. My in-laws bought it for us after my mother-in-law and I shopped around at multiple stores all day long (maybe an exaggeration, but that’s what it felt like).
We finally found the one, picked out the wood color, the fabric and the ottoman and waited for it to come in. The day arrived and I went to pick it up. Or maybe, we took the chair with us and picked up the ottoman….it’s been 12 years, some memories escape me.
This glider was everything I wanted. It was so comfortable, glided with ease and I could see myself rocking my baby in it.
(The ottoman, that was a story though.
I do know I had to pick that up.
I got there and the wood color was all wrong.
It didn’t match at all.
They tried to convince me it was my fault.
Why would I order the ottoman wood to be a different color?
I’m pretty sure I cried.
I left without the ottoman.
They eventually switched out the top with another bottom and we were back in business.
People problem solve for emotional pregnant women.)
Before I knew it, that chair was getting used. Several times a day. Several times at night.
Babies like to nurse. And rock. And sleep with their mothers.
And sometimes their fathers.
I’m certain I snapped the picture and then scooped her up.
Before I knew it, our chair (as well as us) had a new home.
Shortly after, there was another baby to rock in it. And nurse in it. And soothe when those teeth were just too much.
The chair became a place for bedtime stories, and songs.
It became the place where they asked to go when they needed extra snuggles. When sometimes bedtime just wouldn’t happen.
And then, there was one that never made it to rock in the chair. And some mommy rocks that were just needed for me.
Then a rainbow. And the chair was back for nursing and sleeping and cuddling with the newest little one. I’m pretty thankful for that gingham pattern that never really matched anything again. I can see it in just the right spots in pictures to know it’s there.
Like an exceptionally needy time where I gave in and grabbed a book to read. (Can we tell that I also got an iPhone shortly after she was born? Instagram filters for days.)
Before she knew it, that baby wasn’t quite the baby so much and there was yet another new baby to be nursed and rocked and cuddled.
Of course, when one new baby comes, the older baby doesn’t lose a spot on the chair. The chair just has to magically get bigger.
I know there have to be pictures of all of my girls and me on the chair. There have to be. But they allude me and my organization skills. So, one day, I’ll have to get one with me and all of my girls on my lap in the chair. The chair that has their newborn and infant smells embedded in it.
The chair that has no real space in our house.
There are no more babies. And it can’t be divided between the four of them.
I’ve almost given the chair away and sold it several times, but I can’t make myself do it. I’m not a keeper of things. I don’t have going home outfits neatly stashed somewhere. I don’t have locks of hair folded away neatly in a baby book. I don’t have newspapers from the day that they were born.
But I have the chair. The one that smells like them. And I guess I’m going to keep it forever.