Day 65: Born To Rock
I’ve never had many memories of my childhood. But as I grow in years and witness my children growing in theirs, some faded images of youth are making their way to my mind’s eye and heart’s ear.
One that recently came to me dates back to about age 12: I was visiting my step-grandmother in Arizona. I hadn’t met her very many times. She was a nice lady, but we had little understanding of one another. I remember getting sick. I remember a pain in my gut and a weakness in my head. I remember being afraid that I was ruining vacation.
This woman – her name is Ethel – she sat down in a rocking chair and told me to sit on her lap.
Now, I was 12 and I was no dainty 12. I was already aware of being the tallest girl in class who outweighed most of the boys and was extremely cognoscente of my mass.
She rocked me. It seemed like hours. She wasn’t afraid of my weight. She wasn’t afraid of projectile vomit. She wasn’t afraid of a ruined vacation. She rocked that bug right out of me.
You know, I don’t remember anything else about that “vacation” and though I’m sure there was a lot of money spent on souvenirs, I recall only that moment.
Fast forward to age 27: it was the morning of my wedding. I had spent the night at my folks’ place where we’d all head to the church together. As I came downstairs, groggy from last night’s rehearsal dinner and aiming for the coffee pot, my step-mom, Ethel’s daughter – her name is Jane – sat on the couch and told me to sit on her lap.
A MENTAL PICTURE:
Jane:
5’4”,
maybe 100 pounds
(if she’s carrying a bag of groceries),
legs criss-crossed
so she could put me:
5’9”,
at least 140
(without groceries),
in her lap,
wrap her arms around me,
and sway.
She rocked me. It seemed like hours. She wasn’t afraid of my weight. She wasn’t afraid of spilling coffee. She wasn’t afraid of getting to church 5 minutes late. She rocked those prayers right into me.
Fast forward to tonight: I heard my daughter crying. I couldn’t tell you about what. I still don’t know. But as I stood there with my mouth full of toothpaste, and the laundry timer going off, and the list of “to-do-before-bed” unsurmountable before me, I heard that sound we humans utter that says, “I hurt.” It wasn’t the “I-didn’t-get-my-way” whimper. It wasn’t the “please-someone-notice-me” wail. It was the sound that we make when we ache in deep places. And my daughter made that sound.
I picked that girl up – all 10 years of her – and leaned her into me, and I just let her cry. And I rocked her. It didn’t seem like hours. I wasn’t afraid of the weight. I wasn’t afraid of the snot and the drool. I wasn’t afraid of the hours I’d spend past bedtime getting things done. I rocked the sad right out of her.
And tomorrow?
Tomorrow she’ll wake up and maybe not remember anything else about this whole summer, save the feeling of being rocked when she didn’t even know she could be.
