that crib

When we built the addition onto our house, we had the contractor put plywood on the attic floor, with an easily accessible pull-down stair opening. It's been awesome. We needed storage space in the worst way.

Tucked away into the far corner of that attic is the crib that I used for my two babies. I remember picking it out and buying it from the baby store. I remember the anticipation as I looked at that crib, which was nothing special on the surface, but as I simultaneously felt the rapidly enlarging bump of my tummy that would soon prove to be my first-born while I ran my hands over the wood, it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. I remember newborn baby Q lying in that crib and cristening his Granny with a well-aimed boy-shot of pee on his first day home from the hospital. I remember baby E smiling at me from that crib while she kicked her tiny baby legs. I remember older brother Q pulling baby E out of the crib when she was much too young for that so they could play. I remember countless nights of rocking infants to sleep and placing them carefully into that crib - onto their sides, of course, supported by the most recent wedge pillows that were supposed to be the "safest for newborns" de jour, under carefully chosen musical mobiles and amongst a few carefully placed toys and baby-decorations of animals (Q) or of the sea (E).

We're done with babies. I know that, and have known that for years. We COULD still have another baby, but the future father of this phantom baby (there is only one future father) is very satisfied with two children. I'm getting older. I'm not sure I would be a very cheerful new mom. We're done with babies.

But that crib is still stowed away in the corner of my attic. All the rest of our baby equipment - the bassinet, the exersaucer, the swing, the bouncy chair - they are long gone and given away to friends. That crib, though, has always held a special place in my heart and I've not been able to let it go.

Well.

Tonight, BIL called. This is my BIL who is expecting a baby in late May/early June. BIL, whose wife is unemployed. BIL, who was laid off from his job last month, is on unemployment, and is hoping to be hired as the air conditioner guy for his apartment complex. BIL who was commenting to me how horribly expensive baby things are - and in particular, how expensive cribs are. BIL, with no savings, in income, limited prospects for future income.

Sigh.

What can I say? I told him not to worry about cribs, that he could use ours. I said this as my heart clamped shut. For goodness sake! Tell me what good this crib is doing gathering dust (and probably mouse droppings) up in the corner of our attic? Should I be happier having it rot away, using up space, or to have it shelter a new little life? Logically, it's a no-brainer. But my face falls every time I think about pulling that crib out of the attic and figuring out a way to get it down to Georgia. That crib was part of one of the most magical periods of my life. I hold onto it like one might hold onto photos or old ticket stubs.

I know I'll be happy once I meet my new niece and know it's now her first bed and that she shares that treat with two of her cousins. The more I write, the more I know it's a good thing. But that crib is pretty much the last vestige of my life as a new mom...my life with babies, with infants with eyes that were the most innocent and beautiful things you'll ever see, with an attachment to me that made my heart burst, with open-mouthed baby kisses and toothless grins and sleepy eyes that closed at the sight of a paci. My babies.

It's all good. I don't want to go back to those times because I'd lose the kids that are here now. I don't want those babies back, necessarily. That's why I was holding onto the crib. It never changed or grew. It is now as it was then. Blessings to the new infant it will shelter. May she know love.