It was only slightly worn. No frayed edges, no glaring stains. The dusty blue promised neutrality, something soft enough for a nursery and practical enough to travel through new babies, new themes, new rooms. Most of all, it was comfortable.
I gave it a sit, closed my eyes, and rocked back, imagining the weight I was carrying inside my body resting on the outside, nestled under my chin.
“We’ll take it.”
I thought I was buying a chair for a nursery. I did not know I was choosing the place where I would slowly become someone new.
We loaded it into the back of a borrowed truck, wedged like a game of Tetris, then carefully carried and maneuvered it into the corner across from the white crib already assembled and waiting. The crib looked impossibly empty, hard to imagine that soon a tiny baby would fill it.
In those days, everything about motherhood existed in the future tense. I read all the books, took the classes, carefully watched other moms tend to their babies. In my mind, I imagined who my baby would be. I did not give much thought to who I might become.
I settled in, my sore body finding relief in the softness of the cushions, the monotony of rocking soothing both me and the tiny human nestled in my arms.
Rock. Nurse. Rock.
The first of many milk stains, a spilled Haakaa, a burp cloth strategically placed over the back. Middle-of-the-night feeds. Am I rocking too much? The baby must be drowsy, not asleep, but not awake. I can’t be doing this right. Sleepy baby nursing, phone light blaring into my eyes as I researched, scanned social media for any hint of advice. Lay the baby down. Back to the chair at that first cry.
Rock. Nurse. Repeat.
I wanted to do everything right. Everything by the book. Every cry felt like a question, every feed felt like a test. We stayed home for naptimes, tracked each waking moment, and strictly adhered to our schedule. Was this really the mom I was becoming?
The chair held us both. Every question, every cry, every hope that I was doing enough.
Loaded up in the back of a moving van, wedged between the couch and the crib, so tightly wrapped you could barely tell what it was as the door shut and the van drove away to a new state, a new home, a new life. It was hardly used in those days, mostly for holding laundry stuck in purgatory.
Then there was a new warm weight resting on my chest. The room decor shifted from shades of pink and white to adventure and woodland creatures, at least that is what it would be when we got around to decorating. Sleepy rocking, praying for quick sleep.
Rock. Rock.
Wait until fast asleep this time and slowly ease him into bed. More spills of milk, some formula this time. Tongue tie stretches, diaper changes, researching nap timing, then back to rock and rock some more. A sister snuggled in close while I read and nursed and rocked.
This time, I knew more, or at least I thought I did. Becoming did not mean becoming certain. It meant beginning again with a new baby, a new set of demands that disrupted the flow of what I had worked so hard to establish. It did not feel like becoming. Most days, it only felt like surviving.
I was simply here. Simply rocking.
The chair was moved to the hall. Two rooms taken and a pack n play serving as a “temporary” bed in the loft. This time, I rocked and kept my eyes on both doors, humming quietly as she nursed. My phone was in the next room. I whispered, “Take your time,” and we rocked.
Rock. Rock. Rock.
Fast asleep and still rocking. She would learn to sleep on her own one day, but for today, we were just going to rock.
This time felt different. There was still chaos, still change, still the ever-present monotony of routine.
Wake. Feed. Sleep. Rock.
But it felt like I was becoming something different. No, it felt like I had become different. A little less frantic. A little less desperate to prove myself. A little more present. A little more at peace.
Another move, another bedroom. It sits in the corner now, looking a little more worn, the stains visible from the door. It is time to move on, but I’m not ready to let go.
I look at it and see six years and three babies rocking. Tears and prayers and feedings and songs. The stillness in the middle of the night when squirming gives way to slumber. The endless hours of love poured out. I look and see myself as a brand new mother, agonizing over each cry and feed, praying I would get it right and somehow my baby would sleep through the night.
I’ll sit and rock just a little longer. Head back and eyes closed, imagining that weight, heavy and comforting on my chest. Watching the inside of my eyelids, I see the fear and the worry slowly start to fade.
Rock. Rock.
Moments of touch. Prayers released. I’ll stay here a while and just rock. Not because I became the mother I imagined, but because this is where I learned to become.