Shabby Chic

Christmas of 1981 I was gifted the hardcover book The Velveteen Rabbit with illustrations by William Nicholson. I was five. Years later I skimmed it. It contributed to my hatred of battery-operated toys.

I just reread it as the postpartum mother of a boy. I haven't cried that hard since I read The Giving Tree the week Archer was born. Go on, give him your apples! He won't appreciate them because he's in his selfish Babylon phase! He's gonna use you down to your stump before he learns what love is! Waaahhhh!

That sweet rabbit loved the boy for all he was worth. He loved him so hard his whiskers rubbed off and his pretty pink ear lining greyed. He loved him till his joints went soft and his signature spots vanished. His love caused Tight Bunny Shape to go MIA.

Page 32 in my book: "He scarcely looked like a rabbit any more, except to the Boy. To him he was always beautiful, and that was all that the little Rabbit cared about. He didn't mind how he looked to other people, because the nursery magic had made him Real, and when you are Real shabbiness doesn't matter."

On the second to last page the fairy tells the rabbit,

"You were real to the Boy because he loved you."

And that is precisely why his sawdust heart began to beat.

Sob, sob, sob.

Twelve weeks out and I feel a bit velveteen. My tight shape has gone missing, I traded my pink glow for grey circles, my hair is rubbing off/falling out, my joints are soft and my brain is softer (so far I have left my keys in the ignition, my ATM card in the machine, gone shopping without my wallet, spaced the quarterly taxes, ignored texts, forgotten birthdays, and probably offended many by not thanking them for all they have done). My friends Pencil Skirt, Balance, and Free Time haven't visited in ages so I spend most of my time alone in the nursery with the Boy. It's strange that constant companionship makes me miss myself, at least the self I used to be.

Boy just woke up!

I sigh and lift Boy out of his crib. Sweaty back, curled toes, hands in fists. We silently rock in the corner under the shelf that houses Suzette's wooden pull horse, the horse I'm certain is the Granddaddy Of The Nursery when I'm not around. I stare into Boy's glorious blue eyes (recently framed with longer lashes) and sing this swelling soul saga to his gaze, "Archer Boy, I used to be a chic, assembled, pristine wonder. I also felt very dead inside. Now I'm shabby and losing my signatures. I'm not even sure who I am anymore but I know you need me. When you watch me and smile it makes my sawdust heart pound. You made me real again." And because HE is real I nibble his earlobe, kiss his neck, sniff his hair, and smoosh his chubby cheeks against mine.

Boy oh boy. Sometimes being real is really hard yet I asked for this. In fact, I begged for this. I begged for nursery magic. Abracadabra, I'm falling apart and feeling alive.

*I feel like I should add something about being real. Motherhood, while ubiquitous, is not the only way to become real. Anyone can be real if they are needed by someone else. Being loved and being necessary to someone else's happiness is all it takes. My aunt told me that the worst part about getting old is not being needed. I think about that a lot.