Hush Little Baby

“I can’t sleep, Mama.”

Feeling the rustling of the bed sheets behind me I knew my mother had heard my despair and climbed into bed with me. She comforted me, being the big spoon and allowing me, her youngest child, to be the little spoon.

“It’s ok, love. I’m here.” Her voice fluttered into my ears.

“I’m scared, Mama.” With my eyes glued to the baby monitor I confessed my deepest fears. “I’m lost. She deserves better.”

“All new mothers feel like this.”

“Even you?” I couldn’t imagine my mother feeling anything but strong and confident as she navigated through her life.

“Yes, even me.” Her words stroked my cheek.

“But you’re the best. I never saw you falter.”

“My love for you never faltered, but my confidence did, believe me.”

“I had no idea.” Why did this suddenly make me feel better? My mother, the strongest woman I ever knew, had at times lacked confidence. This revelation could have caused me distress, perhaps even to have more questions than answers, but instead gave me solace. I was not alone in my insecurities.

I continued to keep an eye on the tiny screen watching my newborn sleep peacefully. Her fragility made me feel both protective and completely helpless. How would I keep her safe from the cruelty of the world? Her physical and emotional well-being rested entirely in my hands, my small and inexperienced hands, surely not capable of this monumental task. Her psyche to be determined by my words, my actions. Would I hurt her unintentionally? Her little lips puckered as if sucking on a pacifier only she could feel. Would I be able to soothe her when those lips quivered and tears ran down her cheeks? Would I have the words, those magical words of comfort, to help her get through life’s challenges? I wasn’t sure. 

“Mama. I’m not ready.” I felt my own tears start to gather in the corners of my eyes. I kept still, not wanting my mother to see the depth of my emotion. If my tears would fall they would fall silently into the pillow unseen.

“Do you love your daughter?”

The question caught me off guard. 

“Of course I do,” I replied, almost angrily. Was she implying that I felt less than love for my child? This child I had held safe in my own being for nine months, taking care of her with every move I made. Did she think of me as a monster, not loving my child?

“I know you do. See how protective you grew when your love was questioned? You became the Momma bear protecting your cub.”

I exhaled, my anger dissolving as quickly as it had reared its ugly head. My mother as always teaching me, continuing to guide me.

I lay quietly on my side contemplating. My daughter lay quietly on her side as well. What was she dreaming about during her first night home? Having been part of me for so long I pondered her first moments of independence.

I drifted off to sleep.

***

Waking to the angry wails I sat up in bed, heart pounding. Stumbling out of bed I raced to my child. The moment of truth was upon me. Did I have what it takes? 

Scooping up my tiny infant I cradled her in my arms. Her face red with anger, the intensity of her emotion startled me, became larger than life as I shrunk into inadequacy.

Be careful. Her little body was so fragile. All the alarms went off in my brain. Support her head, check her diaper, was she wet, hungry, scared, all of the above? What was the order of operation here, what to do first? I panicked.

My mother’s voice from behind me. “Honey, sit for a minute. It’s ok.”

I gently settled into the rocking chair, temporarily feeling safe. I held her close, examining her face, looking deep into her eyes. We connected in our steady stare. Our tears stopped flowing as we received comfort from one another. The moment of panic passed, allowing the knowledge to return, the feeding to begin, the changing to follow.

“I did it,” I whispered to myself, relief washing over me as I returned to my bed. One last look at the tiny screen of the monitor showed my first success. Smiling, I drifted back to sleep.

***

The angry wails once again filtered through the sleep I had just achieved. My earlier success was of no consequence as the demand of the nighttime ritual started over. I sat up in bed disoriented.

“Let me try,” my mother’s voice from the doorway as she went to soothe her granddaughter. I wasn’t sure, felt uncertain if that would be an option. My baby needed me.

“Hush little baby don’t say a word…” Was I hearing this from down the hall, through the monitor or from my own long ago memories coming back?

“Momma’s gonna buy you a mockingbird…” The song continued, the origin unknown. Would this work? Was there any possibility at all? I sat at the edge of the bed transfixed by the flowing lyrics.

“And if that mockingbird don’t sing…” The wailing slowed down, became quieter. I noticed my daughter now on her back, different than when I had placed her carefully on her side what felt like moments ago.

“Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring…” The crying of my newborn stopped all together, her eyes focused above her crib, her little fists waving around as if the conductor of this predawn concert.

I held my breath, amazed, not daring to take my eyes off the monitor at the miracle that was transpiring between my mother and my child.

“And if that diamond ring turns brass…” I whispered the lyrics along with my mother, settling back down under my blanket.

“Mama’s gonna buy you a looking glass…” My eyelids closed as the silence returned to our home, mother and daughter drifting back to sleep.

***

Waking surprisingly refreshed I sat up and stretched, smiling. Our first full day as mother and daughter was about to begin. Looking at the tiny screen I had the strangest notion as a dreamlike memory came back to me. Was it real or imagined?

Fiddling with the options of the baby monitor I located the footage from the night before and hit play. Chills ran through my body as those magical lyrics sang by my mother floated through the atmosphere. Holding the precious recording close, I searched the video, but apart from the white light that shone over the crib there was no physical evidence of my mother’s visit.