The Swing

This morning I took one glance (and sniff) of my house and decided we needed to clean it. The living room is an explosion of Mega Bloks, play-mats, cars and an assortment of goldfish crumbs and I’m-not-sure-what-those-ares. We’re admittedly a little cluttered with baby gear at the moment and it’s about time to pack away the things River no longer uses. Like the swing. The swing that, to be honest, he’s only been a fan of when it’s NOT in motion.

Trouble is, I’m a pretty sentimental person. This swing is the one we purchased during my first pregnancy. It’s the Graco Finley model, and it was perfect because, of course, our first kid’s name is Finley. I had a difficult time packing it away when Finn was done with it. In fact, Nathan did it one day when I wasn’t home to protest, and honestly, that was that. This time, Nathan’s been itching to put the swing away for weeks. And by put away he means hand it over to Sarah and Dylan and our niece, Kensie, who is set to make her debut in December. But just like last time, I’ve been dragging my feet on it. Why? It’s not like River uses it. Sure, he likes to bat at the bears on the little mobile but that entertains him for all of three and half minutes. And the space it occupies would be perfect for the 19-foot wide Jumparoo that’s currently sitting in the middle of our living room.

This morning I told Nathan that I thought it was finally time. When he was ready to pack it up, I’d be ok with it. Just a little while ago, I walked over to the Finley swing. I touched the little grey bears on the mobile and ran my hands down the sleek supports. Then I did something stupid.

I turned the music on.

Instantly, I was transported back three years ago when Finn was in the swing. I cycled through the various songs and allowed myself to feel the familiar weight in my chest - the one that signifies wanting something I can have no longer.

Finn, June 2013

As the melodies played on, I saw that little red-headed newborn with the mittens over his tiny hands to keep him from clawing at his face. I saw the excitement in his face when he would talk to those silly little bears. I heard the familiar clicking of the swing moving back-and-forth-back-and-forth-back-and-forth as he took his first nap of the day.

I remember staring at the crying baby in the swing and wondering, "How do I fix him?" and thinking, "I have NO CLUE what I'm doing here."

One time in the first couple of week's of Finn's life, the lullaby version of Canon in D came on while Finn rocked in the swing. Nathan looked over at me with a look of nostalgia and a sentimental smile on his face. Our wedding song. Playing on the swing that now cradled our son.
"Turn it off." I demanded as tears welled and threaten to spill down my face.
"Why?" He had asked me. "It's our wedding song." He said it like maybe I didn't recognize the tune.
"Exactly. Please turn it off." He looked at me with such confusion but had done as I asked.
I looked out the window and silently wept at what the song brought back to memory at that time. A day of complete happiness and a lifetime of possibilities. The notion of freedom with my husband. Of last-minute dates that could spill into the wee-hours of the morning. The ability to run errands whenever. The every-night possibility of as many hours of uninterrupted hours of sleep as physically needed. Or wanted.

Now here we were. One of us ecstatic that our union had seen the birth of a new Harris. The other feeling trapped by that same human. From that day on, anytime Canon in D cycled through, Nathan would skip it without even casting a glance in my direction. He didn't understand what I was mentally going through, but he could see how it affected me.

Of course, as the days grew into weeks and the weeks formed months, my hormones settled, the chaos subsided, and sleep finally came and I began to find an identity as a mother. The same human I felt trapped by in the first few weeks became the absolute light of my life and my heart grew to love in a way I could never have imagined possible.

Finn grew and we packed the swing away "for the next baby."

When we put River in it for the first time, Canon in D played. Nathan watched me carefully, waiting for a breakdown he was sure would happen.
"What?" I had asked him.
"Are you... ok?" He replied.
"Yes. I'm good." I smiled back. And I was.
This time, the same song that made me mourn my old life stood for something different. It represented the marriage that provided me with a life I love to live - a (mostly) wonderful husband and two amazing little boys that I get the opportunity to mother every day.

The value of the swing is not lost on me. It has seen me in my darkest days and has watched me grow as a mama. It's triggered me, calmed by babies, and now represents a chapter that is about to close. Soon, we'll take the swing down and send it on to my sister and her husband. Seeing it now in our living room will likely be the last time its place is here in our home.

If you had told me three years ago I'd long for the days of Finn's newborn life, I'd have likely collapsed at your feet in a puddle of inconsolable weeps. But it's true. Hearing the songs of the swing play today made me wish more than ever I could hold him as a baby just one more time and tell that scared new mama that it gets better. It gets incredible. The swing knows.