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.

Four Lions

Archer,

You were given a name and a blessing at church on August 24, 2014. Both grandpas, three bishops, an apple-growing stake president and seven uncles were in the circle with you when Dad pronounced blessings upon your tiny head. Amongst many bestowals Dad blessed you to be BOLD LIKE A LION that you might stand for truth and righteousness. Dad got the phrase from Proverbs 28:1 in the Old Testament. It says “the righteous are bold as a lion“. Archer means BRAVE AND BOLD and you will have to be to survive these last days.

Your older sister is a teenaged lion cub. Aunt Suz (whose cat is named Nala, coincidentally) mailed a miniature stuffed lion that slept with her in the clear plastic hospital box bed so many years ago. The nurses called her A-ROAR-A because of it. She is still learning when and where to roar but I’ve seen her exhibit pillar-like fortitude in her youth. Keep your eye on her because she walks the walk and roars the talk.

Mom and Dad? We’re your FOO DOGS. Aunt Tracey taught me about them after she lived in China. Foo dogs, also called Chinese guardian lions, are the pair of lion statues that have guarded tombs, palaces and temples since the Han Dynasty (200 BC-200 AD). The male lion’s paw rests on a globe and the female’s paw restrains a playful cub. Mr. and Mrs. symbolize how the man safeguards the structure while the female shields those dwelling inside. The lion protects and the lioness nurtures. Nothing is going to hurt you in our home if the two of us have anything to say about it.

It’s my job to feed you. To find the time to hunt for what will make you strongest. Baby Bold, only the purest truth and doctrine will stick to your ribs during famine. Mothers hunt forever so never stop letting me feed you.

I want you and RE to be your own set of foo dogs. You two are a pair now. You will always have each other. She is already nurturing you and when you are strong enough I want you to protect her. I also want you to help move her piano and dig her sprinkler ditches for her first house. What are brothers for?

I heard something on TV the month after you were born. I never looked up because I was feeding you and not looking up caused me to go on a wild goose chase to find out who said it. Douglas Prawitt, the Glenn Ardis Professor of Accountancy (whatever that means) closed his July 2011 BYU devotional speech (that was rebroadcast four years later) with this story:

A few years ago, my mother was diagnosed with a terminal illness. Knowing that she would pass through great agony and that death would inevitably take her, I arranged a trip to the sacred Church sites in upstate New York—just the two of us. It was my way to create some one-on-one time and to say good-bye. At one point, as we were driving together toward the Sacred Grove, I reached out and took her hand. I told her how much I loved her and how grateful I was for all that she had given me, all she meant to me. I told her how sorry I was for the little things that I had done along the way that had caused her disappointment or pain. I will never forget what she said. She squeezed my hand and, her eyes glowing, said, “Oh, Doug, you don’t understand, do you? I forgave you those things before you ever did them.”

Archer, this is how I feel about you. I forgive you for everything you’ll ever do to me. I have this perspective from wanting and waiting. I wanted you for so long and I waited on the Lord even longer. I did not look at RE this way because I was young and skipping down the path Everything Goes My Way when she came to me.

Live up to your name and live up to what the Lord promises the righteous. You are meant to be more than the King of the Jungle. You are to defend the King of Kings and earn your own crown in the process.

This little pride of ours is my reason for living. I love you.

Mom

p.s. Lions are nocturnal. So when you are older let’s stay up late every night. Morning drools, night rules.

*Archer's heirloom was made by the talented and fastidious Pamela Cardwell and backed with WHEN I AM KING. Pam told me she was at a little store in Cache Valley when her quilting friend started shrieking that she found this super-hard-to-find fabric. Pam bought some as well and I am the lucky recipient. Pammers certainly knows how much I love symbols and metaphors so she even gave me the selvage for safe-keeping.