I remember nine months after Cooper was born. I sat in the big, brown squishy rocking chair in his room, desperately trying to rock him into a sleep that I hoped would last. For whatever reason, sleep has not come very easily to him like it did to his big sister (more on sleep in a later post.) How many times have I sat in that big brown chair?
About a month before we met Cooper, we went to RC Willey to pick out a rocking chair for the baby’s room. I wanted something comfy, but easy to get in and out of, nothing too fancy. James and I already determined we were not about to get sold the expensive, electric, do-it-all chair. This chair was meant to rock a baby and, as such, would be subject to all kinds of baby and/or mommy fluids. It doesn’t make sense to spend a fortune on a chair that is destined to be a giant burp rag. When we explained this to the salesman, he led us to the escalator and up to the clearance floor of the gigantic furniture store, far away from the fancy showrooms. We found the two most basic chairs and went back and forth, sitting in each over and over as if this decision was going to determine our destiny. Or maybe, just as unlikely, we were waiting for one of the chairs to whisper, “It’s me. Take me home with you."
But we finally picked the one. It was the one that was a bit more fluffy. To look at that chair now is to remember how ordinary life seemed at the time. We were picking out a rocking chair so that I could rock our new baby. We were waiting for our baby boy, the baby I had declared would be my last. We had a girl and now a boy, what else could I ask for? Ah, to be done with childbearing...
After Cooper came, I sat in that chair every day, for a good majority of the day, as I used the breast pump that sat on the table nearby and attempted to help Cooper nurse, as I ate oatmeal snacks and drank gallons of water, as I attempted to sleep but instead ended up online searching for answers as to why my son came different than I expected, as I searched for someone, anyone who might understand the depth of grief and terrible, terrible thoughts that swirled around in my head. That big brown chair with all its fluffiness held me. It held me as I held Cooper and cried, my tears hitting his face and head. As I wiped snot on my sleeve (and probably on the chair) and tried catching my breath. Who knew that chair would also serve as a giant tissue for me?
I used to hate the chair for reminding me of my naivety before meeting Cooper. But, at nine months into the journey, after months of mostly feeling afraid and unsure, that chair held me when I had a moment of clarity. I was rocking Cooper to try and help him sleep. His head rested on my left shoulder, nestled in the crook between my chin and collar bone, his arms and legs tucked safely underneath his body and against my body, and a blanket covered his tiny self. I’m not sure cozy could even begin to describe just how perfectly his body fits against mine. Every few minutes, for a few seconds he would turn his head toward mine, look up at me, and smile before resting his head back on my shoulder. My heart swelled up. I could physically feel my heart lift, a small weight being taken from me.
For the first time since I had met Cooper, my obsession with finding out why he had an extra chromosome faded. My worry that my life was never going to feel normal again shifted. I felt a sense of peace that I had completely lost and thought I would never know again. The realization that my son came exactly the way he was supposed to. The knowledge that despite all the fears I have and struggles he might face, we can still feel joy. We can still be happy in the unknown. I’m not sure exactly how to put into words what came over me that day. Maybe it was acceptance of the diagnosis. Maybe determination to make our little person’s life the best it can be. Or maybe it boils down to a single word: love. I let myself feel love for my son. I allowed my heart to open up to the new path we were on instead of keeping up walls to keep the emotions out.
Nobody except Cooper was there with me in that big brown chair. I cried, of course, but it wasn’t because of the same old fears, worries, and stress. It was because, after nine months I finally understood that I couldn’t keep holding on to all of that negativity. I was blocking out the happiness to try and protect myself. Because we all know that good feelings don’t last, and for me, staying in the bad feelings is easier than feeling the good and having to come back down to the bad and find a way out again.
I’m not saying I haven’t had moments of sadness since that day. There are, and I assume will always be, things that make me a little sad and worried about the future. But it’s not about that anymore. It doesn’t consume me in the same way that is used to. For the most part, it’s about seeing, knowing, and believing in Cooper. It’s about opening my mind and heart to the changes that I need to make in order to be his mother. It’s about helping others see that they can experience similar changes in their life when they choose to love, believe in, and defend someone who may not be able to do those things for themself.
The big brown chair. It held me then, and continues to hold me while I change. It witnessed my growth. It gave me a place to change and grow.
I love that big brown chair.
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