The Cunningham Family: Rocking My Babies

It started life tucked in the corner between two tiny white cribs, on a beige rug that was thick and stiff. The walls, a muted sage, were just right for the twin babies we brought home, only weighing four and six pounds. Their first few months were carried out in the living room. I sat there, on the couch, feeding them bottles on boppies, feeling like not quite enough, split between the needs of two newborns.

But as time went on, I started to feel more confident, and with that passage of time, we started to use the nursery and that sweet rocking chair more and more. We would lay them down for naps, swaddled up with mobiles going; and we would also put them down to bed in there, praying for a few hours in a row, knowing the odds were certainly not in our favor.

Eventually I went back to work. The twins were five months old, I believe, when I headed back, and from then forward (until the day in February 2011 when I finally called it quits to be the stay-at-home mom I'd always dreamed of) I have memories of sneaking in that nursery, in the dark, the sound of their baby lullaby CD filling the air, scooping first one baby, then another, and taking turns rocking them in their sleep.

Even then, even when I was in the midst of it, I knew that I would miss this. I knew that this time with them would pass in the blink of an eye and even as I lived it, I was nostalgic for it. I remember kissing their sweet heads, rocking slowly, feet up on the ottoman, trying not to get tears on their blonde little heads. How could I have been so blessed as to be their mother? How could I be the chosen one to care for them and witness their lives? It felt too good to be true.

Fast forward two years, and soon I was expecting again. This time, a little brother, just one, and while the timing felt wrong, I knew in my heart, that he was exactly what we needed. He joined our family just a week after his brothers' third birthday, and for five months I nursed and rocked him in that rocking chair in our living room.

Soon it came time for us to go on a grand adventure, off to a tiny village in Alaska, where I would sit in a kitchen chair we had dragged upstairs into the bedroom he shared with his brothers, so I could nurse him before dropping his sweet sleepy self into his crib. The way my back ached, leaning over my sleepy, twenty pound 6 month old, from nursing, was unlike anything I've ever felt. It was a bone deep ache, mixed with a tiredness that meant I often fell asleep in that kitchen chair, despite myself.

The crick in my neck and my desire to enjoy nursing Wyatt after not being able to continue nursing the twins, made me finally call out for what I needed. We asked Josh's family to disassemble a rocking chair and ottoman, and send them to us.

When that chair arrived, I cannot even tell you- I was so, so happy. Rocking not only Wyatt, but also Logan & Jack, was going to be so sweet.

Bedtime would come and we would read our stories, then the twins would climb into their bunk beds and I would rock Wyatt in the far corner by the closet, wrapped in a blanket, with a taggie in his hands, singing "Dragon Tales" (Godspeed "Sweet Dreams" by Dixie Chicks) and "Quiet Your Heart" (Keep You Safe by JJ Heller) until he and the twins had fallen asleep.

Some of my sweetest memories of our time in Alaska are in that rocking chair. Holding sad or tantruming boys, rocking sleepy children, comforting those beautiful souls God gave me.

After a time, we decided it was the season to add another baby to our family. We had just arrived back in the village after spending the summer in Washington, and we got pregnant right away. I was so excited. That sweet, glowing, secret made me look forward to the future in a way I hadn't before. Knowing that my pregnancy would produce yet another beautiful baby for us to love felt like magic.

All too soon that magic ended when the doctor in Anchorage told me that my baby had no heartbeat.

Then the rocking chair became my place of mourning. Singing the words to "Dragon Tales" took on a different meaning. The love I had for my remaining children deepened. The miracle of their lives made more clear to me than ever before.

"Godspeed, little man,"

I would sob.

"Sweet dreams little man.

Oh, my love will fly to you each night on angel's wings.

Godspeed.

Sweet dreams."

I imagined my love like the light from a distant star, traveling slowly, but never stopping, until it reached my sweet lost baby in heaven.

When it came time to be done in our village in Alaska, we left our rocking chair. I'm not sure who it went to, what babies got rocked in it when we were done, but I was okay to leave it behind, along with the baby it would never rock.

When we landed in Portland that May, family there to greet us, I remember hugging my mom and sister, dad and cousin, sister in law and nephews, and whispering to all of them that I was expecting again. We had decided the reward was worth the risk and tried again. A new baby would join our family in January.

Josh headed back to Alaska to teach that last year, while the boys (and Babyham #4) and I stayed with his parents in Washington state. There I was the recipient of my Grandma's rocking chair, one I had grown up seeing, that didn't have an ottoman, and bounced a bit rather than glided, but I loved it. When we found out Babyham #4 was a girl, I draped a pink crocheted blanket over the back of it, and set it up in the middle of the large bonus room that served as a bedroom for all three boys, and as a schoolroom for our homeschool.

In that rocking chair, I spent many hours, nursing their baby sister (who much to my blessed relief had made it safely earthside) and teaching math, writing and science to three busy little boys.

When our family was reunited again in the summer of 2016, we bought our first house and relocated to our new hometown in Central Washington. That move was a group effort, and people donated all kinds of things to our family- a vacuum, old furniture, bar stools and even a rocking chair that I ended up putting in Carly & Wyatt's room, between the crib and the bed.

Just as the rocking chairs before her, she held me as I held, nursed, comforted, and sang to my littlest one. She served me for five years, surviving spit up, fevered babes and the occasional sibling rough-housing. At our new house, she had a home in Carly's bedroom. We would use her to read stories and snuggle and sing songs. But each month, it was harder and harder for both me and Carly to fit on the seat, our twin feet propped up on the ottoman.

Two weeks ago, I had Josh take said rocking chair to the dump. She had lived her life, and served us well, but it was time. I had rearranged Carly's room and there just wasn't room for her. I am shocked, looking back, that getting rid of her wasn't harder. That I didn't struggle more with the decision. But I am glad. I think I am at peace that that part of my life is over. Every ounce of her fluff had been stamped down by climbing children and resting feet. She had given us her all, and she was done.

She was done, and so am I.

No more babies, no more rocking. No more lullaby CD's, or onesies. No more diapers or bottles.

They all tell you, "It goes so fast. Enjoy it. It'll be over before you know it." But somehow when you are in it, it sure doesn't feel fast. But I can assure you that looking back over time, it really does go fast, and you really will miss it. So rock those babies, sing those lullabies, snuggle those toddlers. Pull those sleeping babies out of their cribs for one more cuddle. Because fore you know it, they'll be in braces, reminiscing alongside you about the childhood that flew right by.