The Rocking Chair

No one tells you how much you’ll change.

This chair may look like a worn piece of furniture to some. For me, it is a sacred space. This is where I became a mother. This is where I became myself. 

Like me, it represents a collection of heartwarming and heartbreaking contradictions. This is a place of reckoning. Of monumental purge of demons and hauntings I didn’t know existed. Where my past was laid to rest and a new future written.

This is where I never slept. This is where I often wept. This is where my son learned Bob Marley songs as I softly sang through tears of joy and frustration in the dark. 

This is where I fell in love. The purest most consuming love I never knew existed. Tracing his little button nose and closed eyes with my finger, inhaling him, etching his littleness in my brain, watching him sleep, feeling his breath on my cheek. This is where I watched him grow and grow until his arms and legs could no longer be contained by me or the chair. 

This chair is where I realized all mothers and babies are unique. This is where I learned to compare myself to others or some expectation I had was the thief of joy.

This is where I questioned everything and everyone. This is where my husband and I had to remind ourselves we loved each other as we bickered over details of feedings, swaddles and who got more sleep. 

This chair is where I read. And read. And read some more until one day my son shocked me with his articulate little voice.

This is where my husband saw me looking my worst. This is where he saw me at my most beautiful.

This is where I held my son for approximately 2200 naps because he wouldn’t nap anywhere but on us for the first 2.5 years of his life. Sometimes I resented it. Usually, it was magic.

This is where spilled and spit up formula and breast milk tells the tale of tireless efforts to exclusivity breast feed only to have that dream quashed. And me question myself and my ability to mother well again. And again.

This is where fevers were waited out and colic knew no. Damn. End.

This is where my son and I would melt together during snowstorms and thunderstorms. This is where I comforted him and where he grew to trust me. This is where his eyes met mine and we created our bond. Where we made deals to nap, to eat, to love each other forever. 

This chair is a church. At least if begging is equivalent to praying. The place where I most thanked God for this miracle of mine, this baby who I was told couldn’t be. The place I begged over and over for him to take my fear, make me stronger, make me the best mother for my son.

God answered me.

Grace found me in this chair. This is where I found I could trust myself. This is where I became my best self. This chair is where I met real humility and was stripped of everything I thought I was so I could see what I’m made of.

This is where I discovered true self worth and confidence. This is where I realized the only one I need to answer to was the one I was holding.

Over the last three years I learned to relax a little, stop shifting in this chair and to let it cradle me as I cradled my baby. Accept the growth. Both of ours.

This is where I became a mother. This is where I became myself

– Jenna Lorenz, Proud and Completely in Love Mama

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