As I imagine you've heard, we're moving.
I quit my job this week, Roslyn's last daycare day is Friday, Jason's last Sunday in this pulpit is this Sunday and on Saturday I am going to do my best to disencumber us from the accumulation of things that we have gathered here with a garage sale.
It feels good to look at the appropriation of our lives and say, oh, this is too much, I will get rid of you, and you, and you, and you. But, in the midst of all this, I find myself conflicted. I don't mind getting rid of the big desk or letting the extra mattress go for a song, I have even reconciled myself to selling our beautiful dining room table (too big for the new digs), but I am having trouble getting rid of my recliner.
This is no mere Homer Simpson-ish barcalounger. No, this well-used, separating from the frame, creaky, doesn't always rock right armchair has been my nest.
Before Roslyn was born I read that for the new, nursing mother, it was helpful to create a nursing station, a place where you could keep water, snacks, books, (in my case, the wireless mouse to the computer) your pillows, and other sundries of breastfeeding close at hand so that when it came time to settle in you were as snug as a rug; a nest is a common appellation.
So, while I was still pregnant, I decided that I wanted this recliner to be moved from the living room to the study, in front of the huge picture window looking out on the backyard, just across from the computer, next to a big end table. Here I knew I would spend hours and hours, reading mommy blogs, re-watching X-Files and working my way through BSG, and watching nature drift by outside, as I scarfed down my just for me snacks and people brought me water.
When Sam was born, it was all pretty much the same. I moved the end table between the chair and the window because I now knew how chilly the air off of the window could be, and I had shifted the CPU so it wasn't so noisy while I was watching the Big Bang Theory and Firefly for what must have been the twentieth time. And with Sam being the little wakeful guy that he is in the middle of the night, it is still our refuge at 1 or 3 (occasionally both) and where we retire to at 7:30 at night after Big Sister has been kissed and hugged and Daddy has been grinned at.
Sam and I tuck in to our chair, a blanket around each of us, and he drifts off while I zone out with whatever mindless frivolity the internets is offering up that evening. Every single night, just like I did with Roslyn while she was nursing.
Tomorrow night, the recliner will be sitting in the garage, with a price tag on it, hoping that someone will pay me for them to take it away because, let's face it, it's not worth taking with us. I'm surprised it's lasted this long. But what I wouldn't give for the next week in this house, in this space, to also include this chair, because it's not just a place to park, it's been how we've created our life here.
So, if you're not doing anything on Saturday, come by and see if you want to make any of my old junk some of your new junk. All proceeds will go to, well, feathering our new nest in Kansas City.
But, if you walk by my old recliner, please don't turn up your nose too visibly at its shoddy condition or tsk-tsk over how much I've asked for it because I should pay you to load it up and take it away. Just smile politely and move on to something else. It may not be much to look at. But it has been such a home for me and my babies.