Bears are Asleep

Sofia

 

It was Saturday morning and I'd stripped the sheets from your bed. You walk into your room and I hear you say 'Oh no, what's happened? Whachya gunna do?" as the bed lies naked, waiting for the clean sheets and restored order.

 

You stay in your bedroom for a while. I know you are in there, busy playing with something. Maybe you are stripping the sheets and mini quilt Nana made for you from the doll's cot Grandad lovingly restored for your Christmas gift. Maybe it's your books, the dress up clothes, your box of trinkets and treasures or a puzzle.

 

Sometime later I return to your room, ready to make your bed, fresh floral sheets in my arms.

 

You have since moved out into the garden, and I can hear you jumping up and down on the trampoline singing 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' and 'The Alphabet Song' loudly and proudly to yourself. It still surprises me that you've mastered these songs. I must have sung these songs to you hundreds of time. I sang both of them as lullabies when you were a newborn, finding they were the two songs that I could most easily recall and recite through the fog of new motherhood, breastfeeding and sleep deprivation.

 

I sometimes miss those early moments of nurturing you as a newborn. I remember feeling strangely and unexpectedly confident as a first time mummy, savouring the snapshots in time as you were nourished at my breast, lay sleeping on my chest or looked about with expectant eyes as I enjoyed the age old art of baby wearing. I remember wrapping you and placing you in your bassinette, marvelling at how wonderfully compact you were.

 

As the summer of your birth turned into winter I would tuck a blanket around you, thinking that soon you would need to transfer into a cot.

 

So as I returned to your room my head filled with flashes of your first few months as a baby as I discovered four of your favourite teddy bears neatly lined up and tucked up asleep on your bed. In the absence of proper sheets you had used the Teddy blanket Nana had made underneath them and another Nana quilt to keep them warm.

 

Each bear has a story of its own.The pink bear on the left was my Teddy Bear as a child, now slightly battle weary and scarred. The little red check bear was a gift from a work colleague. Bear No. 3 is from Italy, but you have long since stripped him of his Italian sporting jersey. The big blue bear on the right was a gift from my best female friend in Thailand, Tasanee. It was April 2011 when he joined our family, crammed uncomfortably into the last available space in the suitcase.

 

Before I could make your bed Daddy loudly called out for me to come and help with something.  In the meantime you had returned to your bedroom, checked up on your sleeping posse of bears and trotted down the hallway to confront us both with a finger raised to your lips and a stern "Ssshhh, bears are sleeping, be quiet please".

 

Not too different to what I used to say in those early days of baby Sofia in the bassinette.

 

Reflections

Sofia

 

It's hard to believe that this time three years ago you were just one month old. We lived in a villa apartment close to a thriving suburban high street.

You and I had both come to terms with the process of breast feeding. Both natural and foreign, I loved the forced rhythm of taking the space and time to nourish you. Some people refer to the "demands" of breast feeding but I always quietly enjoyed the guilt free reason to just stop and be with my newborn.

I also loved the way your daddy would join us for the early morning feeds, sitting on the sofa watching his wife and daughter. I sometimes suggested he go back to bed, sleep at 3am being a luxury at that time. He always refused, never wanting to miss sharing the experience of feeding you and motivated by his Neapolitan upbringing to keep me company. His companionship was a nightly reminder of his commitment and love.

I watched you at the dinner table tonight. Using your fork to drum on the table. Purposely dropping your spoon on the floor with an exaggerated "uh oh, oh goodness", scrambling to get off the chair. Sticking your hand in your cup to play with the last of the milk, knowingly watching my stern expression of warning. After several warnings and yet another cheeky act I lost my patience and sent you to sit on your bed for two minutes.

We're trying to teach you table manners. But I also want you to know how to behave at mealtime so we can all enjoy the pleasure of eating together. Sometimes I forget that you are still only three and that it's your job to push these boundaries. You are of course still learning what is expected and etiquette is certainly not a concept you should grasp no matter how much of a "Prin-thess" you are.

Instead of asking you to apologise to me before you returned to the table to finish your meal perhaps I should have also have said I was sorry for expecting you to behave like an adult. It has after all only been three years since you were completely dependant on my breasts for every meal.