The chair is a brown lazy boy.
It sits in the corner of the living room and was a gift from my parents.
It’s big and comfy, inviting, and solid. Its size makes it great for sleeping in, and molds to the person using it.
That chair is our spot.
And has been since she was a baby.
Since the nights of reflux and sleeping upright, since waking up at two in the morning to feed her, since crawling into the chair, settling in and then falling back asleep, it’s been where we go.
Where we learned that the two of us cuddled and curled into each other means comfort, that two in the morning is the quietest time in the house, and “You Are My Sunshine” will take all the worries away.
It’s where we go when the crying won’t stop, when her belly aches, when sleep won’t come, when there’s coughing all night, or when she just needs a hug.
Motherhood didn’t come easily, I fought for my place and stumbled to get my footing. I cried along with my tiny girl while we rocked, begging to be the mother I had expected I’d be. The intrusive thoughts kept me awake while she slept and I wouldn’t put her down for fear she would be in danger.
So we sat.
While I fought Postpartum Depression and she clung to me, dependent on my love and my care.
In the chair we were safe.
She sticks her fingers up into my hair, twirls them around, rests her head on my shoulder, and closes her eyes.
I’ve heard the chair creek, make cracking sounds, and bend with time, and I worry that it won’t last long.
But I’ll hang onto it as long as I can.
There are memories woven into the fabric, songs sung through the threads, and dreams built into the pillows.
A tangled web of moments I remember every time I sit down.
The fight I fought, and won, my daughter and how incredibly proud I am to be her mother, my family and their support.
I didn’t expect motherhood to start out the way it did.
But I found my place.
And no matter how old she gets.
The chair will be our spot.