held.

The glider in its prime, September 2015

I sat in the glider in the middle of the living room, instantly feeling calmed and held by the soft grey cushions, the gentle rocking back and forth. How many nights had I rocked in this chair, holding my infant to feed her, to shush her, to calm her back to sleep? How many times had I leaned my head back and dozed, never too deeply for the awareness of the baby in my arms? How many times had my husband climbed the stairs to the third floor of our apartment that hot September, taking on the night feedings so I could rest, sitting in the glider in his own exhaustion, wonder, and awe at the new life in his arms?

The infant is now nearly 3 years old, is out of diapers, has her own imagination and opinions on things. Just yesterday she was spellbound by the tadpoles in the lake, imploring them to swim into her little cupped hands, then releasing them immediately "so that they can find their mommy and daddy." Today she saw a dead bird and said she wanted to sing it a song--specifically, "Blackbird." For the last year (or longer?) the glider has served as a stuffed animal repository, the pile growing ever higher, and occasionally has served as a precarious ledge on which to climb and look out the window in her room.

We'd freely given away the changing table, bottles, burp cloths, bottle dryer, baby toys, baby bath, baby seat, car seats and rattles and countless bags of clothes. I never hesitated to give away our things--people would ask, appalled, "Well what if you have another one?" to which I would answer, "I'm sure we'd figure it out." I never felt the need to hold on to things; we were so immensely blessed by generosity when Jolene was born that it seemed selfish to hoard these gifts "just in case." If we had perfectly good items that another family could use, why would I keep them tucked away in a closet? Why clutter the house with items just for the memories or the what ifs, when they could be helping new parents take care of their babies right now?

But then there was the glider. Something about me just wasn't ready to give it up, even though we had long since stopped using it practically. Maybe it was the comfort. Or the fact that it was a place where I could feel myself holding my baby. Or maybe it's because it's the only baby item that had actually held me, too.

Our close friends are on the path to adopting a baby. A long wished-for, prayed-for baby whom they have fallen completely (and cautiously) in love with, knowing how adoptive processes can change in an instant. They have a room set up for the baby, have prepared a crib and a dresser and a closet waiting to be filled with clothes from joyous and supportive friends. My husband and I have never known the agony of desperately waiting for a child, either biologically or through the adoptive process. But walking through it with friends gives you new instincts; you want your friends to feel loved, supported, held while they wade through paperwork, interviews, background checks, and interminable waiting periods.

One day, on a whim, I texted my friend to see if they'd like the glider. Like any good salesperson, I pointed out its features: "It's very, very nice - extremely comfortable, solid grey fabric with white frame, and a footrest. Only used by us."

When she immediately wrote back, "Yes!!" I kept going. "It's been the one thing I've refused to let go of until we found a special place. It's so special. Would love for it to be yours."

As we made arrangements to have them pick it up, I had some brief moments of regret. Was this too soon? Was I ready to let go of the glider, its comfort, its memories? Was I ready to admit that our daughter was not a baby? Was I ready to be done with that stage of life? Would I regret the chance to someday give her the glider if she became a mom, telling her about all the time I'd spent with her in that very same place, a legacy of love and comfort and family history?

While I pondered these questions, I also wondered how Jolene would feel. Would she protest when we pulled the glider out of her room? Would she claim she still needed it for her stuffed animals, or for climbing? Would she be attached to this piece of furniture so integral to her early days?

No, as it turns out.

Shortly before nap time, I pulled the stuffed animals off. "We're going to take the glider out of your room and give it to baby Brandon!"

"Oh!" she said curiously, her usual reply to news.

"We don't really need it anymore, and now you'll have much more room in here to play! Won't that be fun?"

"Yes!"

She watched me slide it across the small room, awkwardly maneuvering it through the doorway, scratching some paint on its way out, until I finally pulled it through and she shouted, "We did it! Bye bye, chair!"

I put her down for her nap, reading her a couple stories from Frog and Toad, and that was that. She didn't ask about the glider, didn't cry, didn't make a fuss.

Until a few minutes later.

"Mommy!" she shouted. It was insistent; I went quickly. She was sitting up in her bed, having collected around her all the stuffed animals that had been on the glider. "Will you sing Rock-a-Bye Baby?"

I smiled. Such a baby song.

"Sure, baby. Do you want me to hold you?"

She reached up. I cradled her as best I could, her long legs swinging over my arms. I held her close, and sang her the song, and put her back to bed.

As I quietly shut the door, I knew she wouldn't miss the glider, or the changing table, or anything we'd gotten rid of. For her, the memories and the comfort are not in the things. They're in me. Her dad. The steady presence and care of parents who love her. The feet that run when she calls. The arms that will always be there to hold her.

And as that thought crystallized, I knew it was time for the glider to go to this little boy, who, at nearly a year old, has only had stable caregivers for the last 3 months of his life. It was his turn to be held in my friend's arms, rocked to sleep, held by someone who would never let him go. And it was time for my friend to feel that, too.