Sunday, June 9, 2013


On the treetop... 

I sat in the chair, slowly rocking, letting the rhythm relax and take over. I held a sweet baby in my arms and I smiled as I breathed in the aroma of Johnson’s baby lotion. At first he fought me. He didn’t think he was sleepy. Or maybe he knew it but he didn’t want to give in because of what he might miss. His little body would slacken. His head would nod and his eyelids would slowly close. Suddenly he’d cry out or jerk, just to wake himself up. He’d look around a bit or fuss then he’d relax again. Finally, the continuous motion of the rocking chair got the best of him.

As I sat there with the warm bundle against my chest, I listened to the precious baby snores and sleep sounds. For a moment I was transported back in time when I was rocking a baby a lot like him. That would be his daddy, my baby boy.

I rocked all my babies. It’s something I liked to do. Some self-proclaimed experts say it’s the right thing to do and some argue that it’s wrong. I don’t care. I was rocked and for me it was natural.

I pondered cuddling my perfect little dark haired girl, nestled on my shoulder, and how the motion seemed to  comfort her if she cried. I remembered gazing into the eyes of my first son as we rocked and how I watched and laughed as he wiggled his eyebrows at me. I smiled as I envisioned my last baby, holding him tight while we rocked, his tiny fingers twirling my hair until he was able to drift into slumber.

I still rock, with the Littles, or without. Even though the Littles aren’t so small anymore, they still like to sit with me. We rock, or not, for short times anyway. And I’ll enjoy it, as long as it lasts.

Now there’s George. I’ll rock him, anytime he’ll let me. I don’t know who is comforted more by the rocking; me or him.

When the wind blows, the cradle will rock... 

I seem to have lost my knitting mojo, as well as the time to find it again. Oh well. All the kids want or need potholders so I’ve managed to squeeze in a few in my spare time but that’s about all.

I can knit and rock, babe in arm. I just haven’t. It will wait for another day, another time. Maybe.

When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall, 
And down will come baby, cradle and all...