Mother's Cradle

By Kathy Deters

My two-year-old daughter has entered her baby doll phase. All three of my children have gone through it; a preoccupation with carrying their favorite dolls on errands to the grocery store, pushing them around the living room in toy strollers, feeding them from empty bottles, kissing imaginary boo-boos and tucking them in at bedtime. As a mother, it’s a wonderful phase to watch your child experience. Though the age of two is marked with frequent outbursts and occasional temper tantrums, the baby doll phase is the first glimmer that they are growing into a compassionate, loving person, and even better, that they’re learning those characteristics from you.

So last week, as I watched my little girl make a tiny pallet of pillows and blankets for her doll on the floor, I remembered something tucked away in my cluttered, unfinished basement. I snuck downstairs, pushed aside a few bags of baby clothes, Christmas lights and stuffed animals, and found my treasure, just as I had left it. I dusted it off, carried it carefully up the stairs and placed it in front of my daughter. Her eyes lit up with delight.

“Oooh, baby bed!”

I carefully unrolled the hand-stitched pink blankets and bumper pad that went with it, then watched as my daughter lovingly put all three of her Disney princess baby dolls to bed. After kissing the dolls’ tiny heads, she sat down and marveled at the cradle. By any little girl’s estimation, it is beautiful; a handmade antique that’s been in our family for three generations. Though I know little about carpentry, the construction seems impressive. With its solid rails, sturdy slats and beautifully curved rockers, it has more than stood the test of time (and numerous children’s clumsy hands). But perhaps what is most noteworthy about this cradle isn’t its construction or durability…but the fact that it was built by a mean drunk. A mean drunk who happened to be my grandfather.

It stings to write those words, even now. He did try to shake those demons, but he died relatively young, and never had the chance. Perhaps given another decade or two he could have been successfully rehabilitated, as so many are; or perhaps he would have caused his wife, children and grandchildren another 20 years of heartache. He lived a lifetime filled with addiction, anger and disappointment, and left behind a lot of painful memories. And that cradle.

He built it for my mother as a Christmas present when she was around 11 or 12; already too old to be interested in dolls, she often tells me. Which has always led me to wonder, why? Maybe he had been too preoccupied to notice that she had already grown up? Or perhaps he regretted all the time he had missed, and hoped that it would somehow turn back the clock? Either way, I suppose it doesn’t matter so much why he built it, only that it was built.

Thirty years later, when I was in my own baby doll phase, my mother came across that cradle, its pink paint now faded and chipped. Instead of turning it into kindling, as I might have been tempted to do, my mother had another idea: repurposing. She spent weeks refinishing it with a fresh coat of paint, a new lacquer seal, and beautiful heart-and-flower detailing on each end. And to finish it off, fresh, pink bedding.

I still remember seeing that cradle under the tree on Christmas morning; no store-bought gift I had received before had given me more joy. Because of my mother’s willingness to forgive my grandfather, to put a fresh coat of paint on a memento that could just as easily have been forgotten and destroyed, his act of love and generosity had given me that joy, and that joy has been multiplied across three generations. Over the past decade, I’ve used that lovely bed as a tool to teach each one of my children about love and nurturing--but I’ve learned from it, as well. When we forgive another’s trespasses against us, we do it as an act of compassion toward our fellow man, of course; but forgiving another is also one of the kindest things we can do for ourselves. When I look at that cradle, I understand the beauty and joy that the simple act of forgiveness can bring.

Kathy Deters has a background in public affairs, and currently works as a freelance writer for St. Louis Sprout and About magazine. Transplants from the First Presbyterian Church in Jefferson City, Kathy and her husband Jeff are grateful to be members of St. Mark Presbyterian Church, which has provided lots of wonderful opportunities for their three children to enjoy. When she’s not writing and watching cartoons, Kathy enjoys watching Mizzou football and the St. Louis Blues. Go Tigers!