A couple weekends ago, my parents delivered a pile of old sticks to our house. This is all that remains of the apple trees that shaded the house I lived in when I was a teenager: a pile of dirty, muddy, twisty sticks.
Since then, we’ve been slowly transforming this mass of dead trees into something rather beautiful and yet completely ordinary: a place for a tiny baby to call hits own.
We don’t really use a crib, not as a place where our babies sleep. Our babies share the “big bed” with me and Robert for the first couple of years. But we need a crib anyway.
Because sometimes, when you are the youngest member of a household, everything is too big, too loud, too rough, and too generally dangerous. Sometimes your parents want to put you down so they can go take a shower or do something dangerous or dirty. Sometimes you have inquisitive and entirely overwhelming older siblings.
Our crib is simply a dedicated space that belongs to the baby. It’s a spot where we will be able to place that precious tiny human with a couple of interesting objects and a minimum of supervision for a while.
We had a crib that we used with Númenor and Ithilien. But it never really felt like it was ours. It was some cheap, commercially-produced thing that was only attractive before the fragile finish started to rub and scratch off, and was never stable.
This crib will be our crib. Hand-hewn. Cut from my parents’ apple trees. Rustic and unexpected, but also classic and clean.
A former pile of sticks.