The Crib

A bed is a bed is a bed. Well, not when that bed is a crib. A crib is something more, a place where dreams begin and sweet memories are made. Over the years, I got used to seeing our crib in the boys' rooms day after day, night after night. It was a familiar part of the nursery landscape for six-and-a-half years. Here's the first picture I ever took of Nathan in it:


And here he is, nearly three years later, sleeping in it for the last time before he got his big boy bed:


The crib only stayed in the garage for a year. Then it was time to help Brendan put it together again, as Evan was on the way:


Evan has had his own sleepy-time adventures in this crib for almost three years. It was, more often than not, a place where smiles and silliness reigned:


When I look at the crib, it holds the echos of sleep-deprived infant nights, peaceful baby naps, and a few toddler tantrums. But mostly, it simply holds the sweet, sweet memories of my babies' first years. So that's why it was more than a little bittersweet that today was the crib's last day in our home. It was time to say goodbye to this perfect little bed (which looks as perfect as it did the day we got it).


Evan is currently slumbering in his new toddler bed, which he was so thrilled to have Brendan assemble this afternoon:


And new memories will be made.


But it's with a heavy heart and some tears that I say farewell, little crib. And always...sweet dreams.

Yellow

Sometimes bad habits aren't simply the obvious ones like cracking your knuckles or eating too much sugar (I do those, too). Sometimes they're woven into the infinitely complex fabric of your brain, history and personality, and you realize that not only have they been hurting you, but (far, far worse) those who you love, too. Bad brain habits. They're the hardest to break, and sometimes the hardest to see. And I'd be lying if I said I didn't, at times, feel a bit hopeless about the future. But...I realized the other day while looking through recent photos on the computer, that one color kept jumping out at me over the last month: yellow.

It was in the patterns of this gorgeous swallowtail butterfly who lived in our backyard for about five minutes one day, so engrossed in his nectar-drinking that it let me get close enough to actually brush it's wingtips:


It was on the playground:


It was in the feathers of this goldfinch, and many others, who gorged on the thistle seeds I put out for them in the backyard:


In this gazania, one of the first of the season:


In candy hearts:


In my amazing 102-year-old grandmother's sweater on her birthday:


And even in the icing on her chocolate-and-custard cake:


So, without getting too deep or too melancholy, I'm just going to say that although I'll always be a purple girl (ask Evan, he'll tell you), I'm going to keep looking out for the yellows every day. Because yellow is a good color for hope. And we could all use a little of that in our lives. Or a lot.