That Chair

Tonight as the house was disturbingly quiet and the only light was the moon shining into your nursery window, I held you in our chair. I touched your face and your little hand and smelled the top of your head. You smelled like a baby, the cleanest purest baby.

That chair.

I remember sitting with you in that chair the first night I brought you home. I cried that first night because I wasn't sure I could do it on my own without the nurses. I held you crying because I didn't know if I could give you everything you needed. I didn't want to disappoint you. I felt scared and insecure in that chair.

That chair.

I remember my mom sitting next to me and calmly instructing me how to hold you and telling me I couldn't break you. I remember watching her organize your closet so I could hold you and get comfortable with you. I watched her fold tiny socks and crib sheets. No one knows how to fold crib sheets, but she knew. She knew how to fold those crib sheets.

That chair.

I remember watching your Dad rock you early in the morning and singing to you so softly I could barely make out the words. I remember closing the door and trying to fall back asleep, but adrenaline pumping so fast because I knew he finally understand the connection I felt with you for 9 months as you grew inside of me.

That chair.

I remember your Great Grandma waking up early and sneaking into your nursery and holding you and whispering to you in that chair. Lord only knows what she said to you in that chair.

That chair.

I remember reading book after book after book in that chair our last day before I had to return to work. I remember telling you that it would be okay, that it would be better. That you would meet other kids and have other things to look at and our time together would mean more. It would be more precious.

That chair.

I remember bouncing you in that chair and for the first time you looked up at me and giggled. I bounced you higher and you giggled louder. I remember watching you laugh for the first time in that chair.

That chair.

I remember rocking you when you got your first cold. I rocked you and rocked you and you cried and cried and coughed. I rocked you and sang your favorite lulluby and you cried yourself to sleep in that chair.

I remember staring at the moon at 3 am and asking myself if life could possibly get any better. How could life possibly get better?

That chair. It has an incredible history and it's only 6 months old.