Tuesday, March 29, 2016

The Rocking Chair

My breath catches in my throat as I see the chair. The blood is rushing to my head and I hope that no one can tell. I can barely hear what my mom is saying, so I answer with a general "Mmhm, yeah" which seems to satisfy her for the time-being. 

I didn't notice it before that moment. It has been spray painted since the last time I saw it, and someone was sitting there. It was supposed to go somewhere far away where I would never see it again but here it is, taunting me. Each time it swayed it felt like tiny knives in my chest. I had avoided sitting in it after my son was born, it was a blatant reminder of the mother I wasn't. 

 I am reminded of trying to rock my son in the rocker that his mother has for him in his nursery. He was fussy and I couldn't calm him. He didn't want me to feed him as he fell asleep, I wasn't the mama he knew. It was such a blow to my heart that I left the room in tears after saying goodbye. Would it have been different in the rocking chair in a nursery at my house? Would he have easily snuggled into my chest as I sang to him? How different would our lives be? 

I caught my breath as we walked down the stairs to go back home. The pit in my stomach deepened as I thought of how things could be different. I remembered a quote that I had read on Pinterest that soothed my soul a bit. I reminded myself that I've been through this pain before, and I will go through it again. I'm still alive through it all, and that's a huge accomplishment. 

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