Mothering Moments from Leslie of A Room Somewhere

Molly and Danyelle asked me to write about a favorite mothering moment. Oh heavens to Betsy, after nine years and three children, there are just too many beautiful moments to count. From the time during my first pregnancy when I found out my baby was trying to come 14 weeks too early and our attachment was sealed, to the time my first son had to stay in the hospital overnight with pneumonia and he smiled away the hours, to the time last week when my three-year-old and I peacefully and slept away the morning snuggled in his little bed, the years that I have been a mother have changed me immeasurably.

These days, as I wander into the babyless phase of my time as a mother, my days are filled with worry over my children's choices while they're away at school, the impending scariness of the teen years, and at the same time, the exciting things about maturing children (their independence {they can all buckle into the car themselves!}, the ease of travelling with them, the development of their own goals and dreams, date night!)

Once, after my third baby was born, I wrote a little tribute to my rocking chair for my blog. I've included a portion of that post below, because nothing says motherhood to me more than remembering holding a young, sleeping baby. No moment brings more peace, more overwhelming love than a collection of those quiet few minutes during those heavenly, early months.

I was thinking today, while rocking my baby, of how many hours I have spent sitting in my glider. I'll look over at it one day, in a corner, in a guest room somewhere, and remember all the days and nights I spent slowly rocking and humming. And how many hours my mom spent in her wooden rocking chair, and my husband's mom in her old upholstered one with the creak in it. Neal and I both came from families who rocked us as babies, and I am so grateful for that. We both learned the importance of the peaceful routine of a rocking chair and the soothing movement that can calm a fussy baby.
I have spent many quiet, contemplative moments with a baby on my shoulder, their cheek squished up against their lips, their pure, sugar-sweet breath on my neck. My glider is a happy place, where I rocked Audrey through her colicky hours, sang Wiggles songs to Parker while he drank his bottle, and now where I've nursed Miles by the window, while he stares wonderingly at the light coming through the window. In the middle of these moments, sometimes, I pray that I'll always remember the feeling of having a young baby. I know I'm going to miss it.
I've never been a fan of the old "teach your infant to cry himself to sleep" idea. A little fussing now and then won't hurt, but making a 6-week-old baby cry for an hour? No, sir, not my babies. I worry that I'd one day regret all those moments when my baby was crying and I was doing something unimportant, just trying to "train" them. And why would I want to train my baby to not need me? If my baby can't come to me for comfort when he's six weeks old, to whom will he go when he's six years old? Or sixteen?
All that's not worth it to me. A few months of me sleeping eight hours for all that screaming and torture? My babies need me. I'm their mom. I can lose some sleep for their comfort. I don't think I'll ever look back and think that I held them too much. My mom always says, "You have the rest of your life to do all of those unimportant things. Don't feel guilty, just hold your baby."
When I was younger, the nursery in my house was upstairs and decorated in sunny yellow and white gingham. My mom had stitched a verse of the poem by Ruth Hulbert Hamilton, Song for a Fifth Child and it hung above the rocker. While I was on bedrest for ten weeks with my first child, my mother-in-law picked up a cross-stitch project for me to keep my hands (and mind) busy. It was the same verse, and I finished it just in time for baby Audrey to come. Neal's mom framed it for me and it hung in the nursery.

Mother, oh Mother, come shake out your cloth
empty the dustpan, poison the moth,
hang out the washing and butter the bread,
sew on a button and make up a bed.
Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?
She's up in the nursery, blissfully rocking.


Oh, I've grown shiftless as Little Boy Blue
(lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).
Dishes are waiting and bills are past due
(pat-a-cake, darling, and peek, peek-a-boo).
The shopping's not done and there's nothing for stew
and out in the yard there's a hullabaloo,
but I'm playing Kanga and this is my Roo.
Look! Aren't her eyes the most wonderful hue?
(lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).


The cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,
for children grow up, as I've learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust go to sleep.
I'm rocking my baby and babies don't keep.

Happy Mother's Day to all of you!

Thanks for letting me share, Molly and Danyelle!

Read more from Leslie, daily, at A Room Somewhere.