Some moments in parenting catch you off guard in the best way. A word you forgot was only yours. A creaky chair that brings back the early days. One of our doulas, Arin, shared this reflection with us, and it stuck. It’s personal, and filled with the kind of layered meaning that only shows up when you’ve lived a few rounds of baby life. We’re sharing it here with her permission.
“Mama. Why are…” my middle son restarts his question, “Are we the only people who call it a rockababy?” My eyes widen as I respond too quickly “That is what it’s called.” I’m gaslighting him on a Tuesday morning, and because I’ve raised him, he knows when he’s being gaslit. “Wait a minute.” His older brother’s head whips away from the comic he’s been drawing, enlightenment dawning in his eyes “is that not what they are?!”
He’s almost 16. Our family word had a good run. “That. Is what. They are called.” Two boys laugh and now the third stops posing his storm trooper panorama, begins to pay attention, and the jig is up.
I keep insisting I don’t know what they’re talking about, I’ve never heard the term “rocking chair” in my life, that item is and always has been a rockababy, (definitely for longer than my oldest began to call them that in toddlerhood) and they are crazy.
“Guys stop she’s gonna cry about us growing up. Don’t worry, Mama, we’ll keep calling it that.” I’m glad to have raised boys who don’t step in fairy rings in the woods and who promise to pretend to be small for just a while longer.
It’s a few days later and I’m contemplating adding WD-40 to my postpartum backpack. The rockers in my clients homes are generally passed down and sometimes squeaky, and I worry the noise will be disruptive. But it’s not waking the baby I’m holding, and I’m not an elderly man with tube socks and sandals, so I won’t be carrying home repair grease into unsuspecting nurseries. And now a memory is waking up, and I go back years ago, to the week my second son was born.
There’s a noise, and noises always need attention. My attention.
Maybe I can ignore it, it’s not getting worse, and it’s not crying, and I was sleeping. If I pretend I’m still asleep maybe I will sleep again. My babyest is safe and asleep right here, days old. A now big brother, not sure about this tiny stranger, was asleep in another room. And grandpa, now twice a Great – he’s visiting. If my sweet Grandpa knows I’m awake he’ll try to be quieter – he doesn’t know that homey noises make me feel safe enough to sleep. I can’t sleep in silence, so I hope whatever it is continues. Two creaks, four, six, eight, loud, like a clock in their repetition. The rocking chair. He’s rocking. He’s rocking that newly brothered toddler. Drawing out his nap, so I can draw out mine and the smaller brother’s. Everyone is safe, even me. And the floor creaks, and the chair squeaks, and I go back to sleep.
Those were the days. Back in the present, these are the days too. For the mama who’s baby I’m rocking to sleep. Maybe she hears this creaking, and can settle like her little one, and know we’re all safe. What a gift I was given and can now give, these back and forth creaks that mean everything is alright.
What a gift I was given and can now give, these back and forth creaks that mean everything is alright.
To learn more about what services Arin provides with Rocket City Doulas, hit that “contact us” button and schedule a call today!
