Household purge brings back memories of cribs and babes

Now that we’re down to biweekly garbage pickup, my mind is frequently in the gutter.

Curbside, actually, ensuring the garbage truck doesn’t pass by because we’ve gone over our limit.

That can require planning, especially when dealing with big items, such as our old crib.

Four children later, no one can say we haven’t got our money’s worth. A sizable crack in one of the legs means the crib’s unusable, and we’d long since thrown out the well- worn mattress and passed the linens on to Goodwill. So, in a recent household purge, I determined that tossing it was long overdue.

It was a decision that flooded me with memories, because it was 19 years ago this month my parents took us out shopping for a crib.

Given that I’d already had a miscarriage, superstition dictated we wait until late in the game, so we arranged delivery for a month before my due date, a period marked by an overwhelming sense of being at the top of a roller coaster, a mix of exhilaration tinged with terror.

I can still recall the look of pride on Mike’s face after he assembled the crib, and then the look of chagrin when he realized he’d put the mattress frame in upside down, forcing him to take the crib apart and start from scratch. The last bolt was tightened just in time. Jake arrived early. I’ll never forget the first moment I laid him in the crib, since it was one of the few times I recall him spending in it. Sleep didn’t come easily to our firstborn, who preferred being walked and rocked while he screamed his head off. We came to know every square inch of that crib as we experimented with ways to tempt him to sleep.

In time, Jake moved to a bed in anticipation of a younger brother or sister. But after two more miscarriages, the crib sat empty. It began to feel like it would never be occupied again.

It was with great joy, then, that Luke was installed in residence. He, too, seemed to spend little time in the crib, but for entirely different reasons. Wiry and adventurous, he quickly figured out how to climb out, and would appear at our bedside at 3 in the morning, entirely confident we’d be thrilled to see him. Agood thing, too. He was more than ready to move to a bed by the time Molly arrived 17 months later. Once out of the bassinette, she settled in nicely to the crib, particularly fond of the bumper pad with the pastel stars.

It was strange to watch her snuggle contentedly into a corner and drift off. I realized this was the way new parents expect — indeed hope! — babies will behave. One evening shortly after she’d been put down she let out a terrified wail. We ran upstairs to find Molly clinging to the crib rail, staring out the window at a well- fed raccoon, who was eyeballing her back. By the time Charlotte came along, the crib was communal property. Her brothers and sister loved to pile in with her, making forts and entertaining their little sister. As I was putting laundry away one morning, I heard an ominous crack as all four kids jumped up and down in the crib. I know a sign when I see one. Clearly it was time for Charlotte to move into the bottom bunk and for the crib to be retired.

Periodically, I would wonder what to do with it. If I were more creative, I might have turned it into a coffee table or a quirky room divider. All I knew was that I wasn’t ready to part with it. We cling to the totems in our lives, the items so invested with memories they take on a spiritual quality, making it impossible to part with them. Some just happen to be a bit bulkier than others and a little harder to store. One of mine still sits, in pieces, collecting dust under our bed. Maybe next week. The Minivan Years appears twice monthly. Catherine Mulroney is a Toronto journalist, author and mother of four. Email her at catherine _mulroney@hotmail.com.