Before Natalia was born I knew my "new mommy must have" was a glider. I have loved rocking chairs since I was a small child. The rocking sensation is spiritually soothing to me. As soon as Natalia was old enough to articulate her take on the world, she named the glider "the mommy chair". True to any parenting form, we all call this chair "the mommy chair", even when daddy is throned on it.
When Natalia was an infant, the chair was in our bedroom and I would nurse her in this chair. My love for the mommy chair has deepened because, as any mother who has nursed her child knows, when you nurse you are flooded with oxytocin making you feel peaceful and all lovey-dovey. My brain is as simple as Pavlov's dog - I just don't drool as often. I also blame this mind body connection on why I love the smell of Pamper diapers. It is not unusual to see me smelling a Pamper while I am walking down the hallway at work to deliver it to a patient. In my defense, I don't smell the used ones. That would be weird.
When Natalia got older, we moved the chair (and her) into her own room and it became a steadfast part of her bedtime routine. It also became a part of her "I want mommy to rock me every three hours" routine. Then came Ferber - but that is another story for another time. I had an epiphany one night after I had fed her a bottle and sang her a song: She would not always fit in my lap. It was like being sucker punched in the heart, but I resolved to embrace every moment she and I spent in the mommy chair.
Now, those of you who have not seen my daughter recently won't understand the mental picture of me still holding my 95th percentile six year old in the mommy chair every night she is home. She is four feet tall and weighs fifty pounds. I am five-three, and weigh 122. I am almost at that dreaded point where she will no longer fit in my lap. I said almost - but not yet. I have to admit that I also still carry her around when she will let me. I'm pretty sure in the near future her feet will be dragging on the floor while I carry her.
In the meantime I cherish the time we spend in the mommy chair. She loves books, just like her dad, and it is amazing now that she reads to me before bed. She also loves my singing, which is good since I am almost always singing when I am at home. Yep, out loud; out of tune; don't care. She loves to sing too, and sometimes we will try and out-do each other. So at night we share a story, share a song, and then have some insightful chats - all in the precious mommy chair.
We have talked about death, boys, hygiene, her day, my day, why some of her friend's parents don't live together, plans for vacations, memories of vacations, God, scary dreams and weird room noises. We have problem solved nightmares by inventing the imaginary sweetie jar while in that chair. I have embraced every second of it, even when it has been 3am and she has been burning up with a fever. Tonight she turned to smell my hair and told me I smell like home. My eyes teared up a bit and I told her she smells like home to me, too. It is during this time that I know God is in the room with us, and He is proud of our love. Now don't get me wrong - my family is not one continuous hallmark moment. My loving memories of that chair also include when I feel her tense up on my lap to fart on me. Our house rule is: farting is always funny. It's gross and smelly, but very funny and always induces lots of giggles. I'm sure from us and God since it is His design.
The mommy chair is the place I go to when I am upset or feeling blue. It just makes me feel so comforted. Sometimes after a long, frustrating shift in the ER I will come home and rock in that chair while I watch her sleep. I miss the days when she was smaller and I could pick her up out of her crib and rock her for a while. She wouldn't even wake up, but she would reach over my shoulder and start unconsciously playing with my hair. If only Pfizer could bottle that feeling up. Now that she is big and not used to being constantly cuddled - I get decked in the eye by flailing arms and stinky breath telling me to put her back to bed.
When it comes to baby stuff (she'll always be my baby), I like to take care of it and pass it on to another family. I am a little superstitious and know that some of the joy will stay with the chair to give to the next family. That day is fast approaching and I will certainly cry when that chair leaves home. Jeremy will be hugging me and rolling his eyes at the same time. He is not emotionally stronger than me, because I know for sure that if it had been called "the daddy chair", It would NEVER leave the house.
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