To the attic

One thing has become perfectly clear in the last few weeks: the cradle needs to move to the attic. It's not being used for its intended purpose, it is too often a destination for a pile of laundry that should be folded instead, and it is in the way. We just don't have room for it.

But...but...my dad slept in this cradle. My aunt and uncles did, too. My sister and I were the next generation to be rocked; in fact I rocked myself so hard that Mom had to move me to the crib. I remember all the Christmas presents my family filled it with when there were no more babies to rock. I can still see each of my babies taking their turn in the family heirloom, napping and creating countless photo opportunities.



My grandparents bought this as an antique in 1929 when they were expecting my father, and my grandmother had lots of hired help to attend to her five children, but I still wonder whose foot has rocked long enough to wear down the wood. The gentle, soporific rhythm helped our babies surrender to sleep, but the worn foot speaks of hours, days, years of rocking beyond what we invested.

Someday, our children will hopefully reach into the attic and bring down the family cradle. It will be waiting for them, wrapped in old mattress covers, safely hid in a dark corner. Then they can add their hours and days and years of rocking, wearing a bit more from the generations of worn down wood.