There’s a lovely little song that comes on on our baby swing.
It hasn’t a name that I know of. To me, it’s just “My Favorite Baby Swing Song”. It’s childish, unsophisticated, and about 30 seconds long. It plays in that familiar, tinkling music box kind of a way.
Songs have a way of engraving certain memories on our hearts. Imprinting specific experiences in our minds. This little lullaby brings me back to when I was a first time mom. The first few blissful, yet frightening months. Ecstatic to have a beautiful new blessing in my life, yet constantly worried about what I may be doing wrong. That time period is all a bit fuzzy in my mind, mainly because I was half asleep for most of it.
I do, however, remember clearly something beautiful my mother did then. She packed her bags and stayed at our apartment for a few weeks to help me take care of the baby (as perhaps many other mothers and mothers in law out there do). She happily giggled and cooed with him. She readily woke up to comfort him, so that I could sleep. What made this time truly beautiful, though, is the way she so obviously trusted in my ability as a mother. The way she never second guessed anything I said about myself or my baby. The way she quietly, gracefully supported me.
My mother wasn’t much of a “talker”. She said what needed to be said, but she didn’t go on for very long. I spent a lot of time in silence with her. This is one thing that stands out in my mind about her. The way I felt comforted, encouraged, and loved throughout the silence. She made it clear throughout the years how much she adored me and how in her eyes, I could do no wrong. Certain things changed about her as she started showing more signs of Huntington’s Disease, but in the moments in which she had complete clarity and her true self could shine through, I felt the same unconditional love and support. I held on for dear life to the real her, as I know she was doing.
It wasn’t Huntington’s Disease that took her life in the end. It was an even crueler being: Cancer. That’s a story for another day.
Every time I hear this playful, gentle lullaby, bittersweet nostalgia envelops me. I’ll have to record it somewhere so that I can listen to it after our baby swing days are gone. My mother left a void in my heart and in my life, but I refuse to let it taint my faith, my hope and my happiness and excitement for the future. She may not be around physically anymore, but she lives on through me. Now, when I hold my second blessing, my little girl, I hold her not just for myself, but also for my mama.