It’s nine o’ clock PM, and all the kids are in bed. I’m in my happy place…..and the baby starts crying.
Reluctantly, ever so reluctantly I raise up out of my chair and slowly walk down the hallway to the nursery door. Inside, Jack’s all a flustered, his pudgy arms poking out of his swaddle. He’ll be a year old next month and still requires a snug cocoon to go to sleep.
In the darkness I pick him up, sift blindly through his blankets in search of a binky, and begin the task of re-swaddling him, one wiggly arm at a time. I find the exercise ball in the corner of the room and cradle him across my chest as I begin bouncing up and down, up and down, patting his paper diapered bottom on the off beat. It’s been a long day, and I’m craving the quiet solitude of the mommy cave and some time to sit and just do nothing.
My mind begins slipping into a negative arena, brimming with the day’s daunting tasks, and a few triggering reminders of past issues thanks to the most wonderful Facebook. In the darkness of my son’s nursery, feeling somewhat alone and on the verge of agitation, a random thought entered my mind that changed my mood completely. Coming out of a daze, my eyes glanced at my son’s crib, and I was reminded that the mattress inside it was given to us by a kind family in our church. “How nice that they cared enough to give that to us when they didn’t have to,” I thought.
People care about us.
Such a simple yet profound thought.
My eyes continued to scan the room, and with every place they landed, I saw yet another item that proved my thesis.
The well loved dresser and glider cover that my mom sewed for us so many years ago when my twins were first born, the noise machine on the dresser that my in-laws so generously let us borrow (aka keep forever), the crib bedding that was so generously gifted to us at my first baby shower a decade ago.
There was a pile of baby gear stacked in the corner, items we had given to my youngest sister when we thought we were done having babies. Seeing that we were pregnant again, and without hesitation, she kindly returned everything.
The closet and shelves lined with boxes filled with baby clothes had me reflecting on the many outfits given to us by family, friends and ward members. My twins had a massive wardrobe size newborn to 2T before they made their way into this world.
Even the blanket that was swaddling Jack as I rocked him back to sleep reminded me of a sweet woman’s face who took the time to choose the soft fabric, cut it long enough to make a good receiving blanket (not many can hold an eleventh-month-old), and carefully hem the edges.
Try as I might, I couldn’t find a single area of the nursery that didn’t display something that someone else gave to us out of love and thoughtfulness.
It’s easy to feel sad, alone and unloved in this oftentimes disconnected world. I was grateful for a simple reminder that my village exists, that proof of it is within the walls of my own home, and that there is always love around me if I look for it.