Sweet Baby Reags

Dear Jamie,

Last night I put a very overly tired baby Reagan to bed and as is the norm, I thought of you the whole time. As I was feeding Reags her bottle and rocking and singing to her, I stared up at the pink puffs on the ceiling and quietly cried thinking of you. I cried, like I do most nights that I put her to bed, thinking how proud you would be of this little girl; I think of the quotes on the wall that I had to put up without you; I think about how I hope that I put them up the way you wanted; I hope that the framed fabric pieces are hung in an arrangement you’d like; We still need to get a mirror with a white frame to go to the right of her crib, because that’s what you wanted; I wish I didn’t insist that you couldn’t see the bed skirt I was making until it was finished. I wish I at least showed you the fabric, because you would have loved it. The bed skirt on the other hand, well let’s just say that I clearly have not yet mastered the art of sewing.

Mostly, I look around the room and up at those pink puffs, and remember one of our last moments alone together, just the two of us. How can the same, seemingly insignificant memory play in my head every single time I’m in there? You’d think it would get old and my brain would move on to others.

It was a Friday night, the Friday before Reagan was born. You were sitting in the zebra upholstered rocking chair, where I sit now when I rock baby Reags. I literally can picture you sitting there rocking gently back and forth and talking with me. We were doing lots of last minute things to get her room ready for her big arrival. I was sitting on the floor opening and spreading out and fluffing all the pink puffs. We sat there and talked, and laughed at our bickering parents as they meticulously stuck each little piece of the decal to the wall, because they wanted it to be just perfect for you, and for Reagan. When they went downstairs, we continued with our projects. We could hear the kids running around and playing and smiled at how adorable they were, and felt slightly guilty that were weren’t downstairs helping a likely very tired Paul.

I stood on a chair on my tippy toes as you directed me to where each puff should go. You were always so good at being the director of such activities. I would hop off the stool to assess each puff with you then hop back on to hang the next. I hope they turned out the way you wanted them to. I think Reagan likes them a lot. I remember laughing as we cut the pieces of fabric with the worst scissors ever, and laughing at just how un-arts-and-crafty we were. I remember we had to take a frame down from the stairwell pictures because one of ours broke somehow. When we finished for the night and stacked all of our framed pieces of fabric ready to be hung, I remember being able to see and feel your relief and sense of accomplishment that the room was almost complete. That part makes me smile.

So on the evenings that I put Reagan to bed, these are all the things I think about. My mind doesn’t wander to other memories, just this specific one that took place in her room. We rock in the chair and I sing James Taylor’s “Sweet Baby James,” except I substitute Reags for James. John and Larkin now call this the baby’s song and request it to be sung to them (when I’m in the room as they go to sleep). And then when I say “rock-a-bye sweet Baby Larkin or Baby John Boy,” they quickly respond, “I’m not a baby” and laugh. So, Reags and I rock in the chair and I envision you sitting there and talking and laughing with me, and I often cry, wishing so much that you were here to rock your beautiful daughter to sleep.

Love,
Kat