Looking into the little white crib and seeing the baby sleeping peacefully was a sight Martin would never get used to. He had always loathed the idea of being a father and now he couldn’t quite imagine his life without Elizabeth.
McRib. It was a sandwich I hear. Never tried one. It’s all very highly suspicious, the food on that production line.
Also, Jonathon Swift’s “A Modest Proposal” pops to mind.
Children, yeah, I have a couple. Didn’t eat them. Didn’t put them in crib either. My ways are strange but include lots of cuddling and natural mothering. Also some frustration.
I sat in the crib. I was a child at that time, but not anymore. Now I am grown and out of that crib. That crib that used to fit me no longer supports me. I sit here with my tears remember my old times, when I was just a small baby. I wish I could go back, but it wouldn’t be worth it. The years to come are far more important to me than the years behind.
tiny curled fingers reached up from soft lavender sheets, and they wrapped themselves tightly around the bars. her laugh was silver bells. her presence was the smile on my face.
As I looked into the small wooden baby holder, I realized that our creation, what we meant to make together was no longer there. Where did she go? Who has her? I swore she was there the night before. In fact, I can still see a soft imprint of her body. She is gone. But where. That is my life’s purpose. To find out.
Nothing to do with babies. To crib, when I was at school, meant to copy homework or exam answers from another pupil – with or without their knowledge. Allowing someone to crib your own work could be a powerful tool. Our school bully was a thug named Nick Dempsey who came from a long line of school bullies and hence the fear he engendered traveled before him as he moved through the school system. Apocryphal tales of the horrors and tortures his elder brothers had visited upon the oiks of their day were whispered in dread among the desks and in the bicycle sheds. I quickly noticed however that Dempsey, the self appointed terror of the playground and the journey home from school, was not actually the strongest person in the class. I noted how Dempsey always avoided Dennis Mahoney, a gentle and friendly sold who had the build and strength of the oxen he probably manhandled on his father’s farm. Mahoney never flaunted his strength, but neither did he interfere with Dempsey’s bullying, opting to mind his own business in all things to do with the daily trials of school life. Though I was no wimp myself, I was clever and Dempsey had a native contempt for all things clever, studious, who knows what. So he took to baiting me, tripping me up, charging brutally in sports tackles. I had no hesitation in swinging back at him but after collecting a couple of bloody noses and various bruises, I quickly grew tired of the thuggery. Mahoney was not the brightest knife in the school cutlery box, but he seemed keen to master the work nonetheless. Here was a doable deal if ever I saw one. I quickly drew up a pact with him. I would help him with homework and offer crib facilities by sitting next to him during class tests. In return, every time Dempsey lunged towards me he would find that Mahoney had inexplicable placed himself in his path. No blows were ever exchanged, but it took Dempsey, thick as he was, very little time to get the message. Some time later, I upped the ante by adding just a few friends and a couple of the most vulnerable little ones to the Mahoney protection racket. We had just started algebra, which I was OK with me, but to Mahoney it was as incomprehensible as a Hebrew Bible written in Chinese characters. Dempsey was left to pay a heftier price by bullying those who were game enough to fight back, costing him time, black eyes and a reduced reputation.
The hand that rocks the cradle may rule the world, but the hand that controlled the crib brough down the mighty of the school yard.
I wish I could stay little forever. Remain in my crib. Oblivious to the feeling of responsibility, anguish, jealousy and heartbreak. I wish I could remain in my crib. Cry for milk and for a change of diaper.
the feeling of looking up and seeing her face.
to see the colours of the toys that hang.
to know that she will check on me again.
to not knowing that i will miss the security of these bars again
to think of the pillow i rested my head on.
I miss my crib and more than that i miss the joy of seeing her face looking down on me
He stood over the crib, watching his grandchild. No one else in the room noticed him, they were so entranced by the cute little bundle sleeping in their midst. But that little bundle’s grandfather didn’t care, all that mattered was that his grandson was healthy. They had paid him little heed when he was alive, anyway.
My ideal of the perfect crib has certainly changed over the years. The more days I spend on this earth the more I lean towards a smaller, but tastefully designed environment. Beautiful to behold, quick to clean and functionally sound. Those are my criteria.
I pick up the crying baby and try to soothe her, cuddle her out of her crib and see if she’s wet or hungry and I am still a little tired from lack of sleep since i’ve been up for two hours after getti
I placed the child in the crib next to the window, gazing out to the beach and watching the loneliness of people stroll along the beach. I wondered if they were alone as I felt today.
May does tend to keep most of her old items and necessities from Elijah’s time as a baby around. She knew they’d come in handy again, soon. “She’s going to sleep in it?!”
“Yes, Elijah, for the hundredth time. And don’t climb all over it, it was a gift.”
“You can’t let her sleep by herself in here!” Elijah proclaims with his voice and it echoes loud enough for May to hear shuffling near by. She sees Meredith in the corner but doesn’t call to him yet. “She’ll sleep next to my bed, you know. And why are you so against it?”
“You’re making her sleep alone,” He protests again.
“YOU slept alone in this very crib!”
“I know.” May finds herself staring at her young son’s intense, serious stare. “And look how *that* turned out.”
I said I knew him. Actually, I dated him. True story. Onto another true story, I remember my crib. It was wooden. Nothing special. I just remember being in there. And I have a false memory. Untrue story. A woman with a white apron holding several bottles on a tray. Being in an orphanage. That never happened. It may not feel like it sometimes but I do know my biological parents. I do know them and they raised me, I guess.
The swinging crib. Why had she got it so early on? Never used, never would be. It was now just a storage for toilet paper and some extra towels she had planned to give to her sister’s dogs. Maybe the crib should go too. Now it was just a reminder of the life she would never lead.
The empty feeling was the worst thing. It ate at the corner of his mind wherever he looked, but hurt most when he laid eyes on the bare, wooden crib.
A sharp, frozen feeling sliced through his composure, and suddenly he couldn’t stop the raw sob that tore itself from his throat after days of restraint.
she jumped out of her painstaked jail called a bed for babies. Landed right on her face. didn’t make a sound. then she ran to the solace of her grandparents bed. somehow in the morning, she ended up back in the crib.
Rotted boards creaked underneath our combined weight. It was dark—hardly enough light for us to see. The attic was cluttered: broken remnants of furniture, a rusted bed frame, a dust-covred crib in the far corner, and countless heavy wooden trunks. We looked helplessly at the mess, both of us doubting that we’d find what we came for.
My house is a not a crib. The last time I had a crib, I was an infant sleeping in a bed with elevated sides. Isn’t there such a thing as a corn crib. What other forms of cribs are there? Didn’t they used to talk about cheating using a crib sheet? It’s a funny word, this crib. But I used it in my one word essay du jour.
baby swinging high in your tree top,
tiny fingers dangling from between the bars,
a twitch and drip,
liquid rubies spattered across the yard,
as you sway in the breeze,
rocked by whispering lullabies,
into a sleep as dark as your mind
So many words to describe it. If you come from a certain place, a crib is a home. It’s your ‘place’. It’s the part of you that you want others to see and identify with. At the same time, a crib is a place where you first lived – not the home you reside in now, but a home you had first starting out. Not everyone gets a crib, though. For some it’s just a bassinette. For others it’s a crook in your dad’s shoulder where you lived for a few months. For even others, a crib is confining. Maybe you needed to bust out. Maybe you needed a place to branch out into and the crib wasn’t quite the place. I don’t remember my crib. I’ve seen pictures – a beautiful, blue rocker with the family name painted across in bright, golden yellow. I don’t remember it. But I love the idea that that’s where I was nurtured and cherished. And I’ll remember it for that — always.
babies sleep in cribs. they are their one place they spend most of their time if not ith their parents. I used to have a crib, its was a drawer in my mothers dresser. Cribs usually come with mobiles to occupy babies.
I let my tears drip down the white railing of the emty crib and onto the pink sheets that were cleanly spread on the tiny bed just as they were 5 months ago when I had set them. I ran my hand through my hair and let the thoughts of hatred consume me. I let myself scream at myself. I let all the hurtful comments circle me faster in a spiral motion. I watched the empty crib and imagined a tiny bundle of joy with my eyes and his smile. I listened to the lulluby of the speaker next to the lonely crib. I wondered what it would be like to finally have a child of my own. I let my hand come down on my stomach and wondered what went wrong.
The baby cried in her little crib. So much noise. The mother woke up, still sleepy. Don’t cry little baby I’m here now. The little baby, realizing her mother was here with her, hugged her and the crying was soon quited.
Mothers and babies. So much connection. Just one cry and the mother was there. How I wish it was easy like that. When you have a problem you go to your parents.
It was hard when you grow up. You experience different things but sometimes you don’t go to your mom or dad. This must be hard for them too. Not having connections to them.
Sometimes misunderstandings, mixed signals and everything else.
WHen I was little I would always escape from my crib. I was also afraid of the song that says that the cradle will fall because a cradle is like a crib. My parents also call cribbage crib.
The only family left in the street was the Johnsons, and they were recently blessed with a child of their own. This child was even more special than you’d think, as the Johnson family spent many long months trying for a child of their own. Finally, after all this time, they had their little Emily, and she was as good a baby as any. She didn’t cry, or scream. But she did make noise in the night. Like knocking the furniture and howling.
the cradle was empty, just like the crib. it had been for years. in fact, it had never been occupied. it rocked slowly, gently, as the tears ran down the would-be mother’s face. they fell quietly onto her skirt, a tear for every strike of the clock. for every child that never was.
My uncle placed us side-by-side in our cribs, smiling at our happy, sleepy gurgles. We each wriggled into our blankets and let out simultaneous contented sighs.
My mothers arms circle me as she places me inside a warm cocoon of comfort. Blankets engulf me and she places cool lips on my forehead as she bades me good night. Bliss inside the crib. This is what it feels like to be little again.
Looking into the little white crib and seeing the baby sleeping peacefully was a sight Martin would never get used to. He had always loathed the idea of being a father and now he couldn’t quite imagine his life without Elizabeth.
My son was sleeping in his crib.
Its strange to think that it was only a couple weeks ago my wife and I became parents.
Does he dream, I wondered.
Or are his thoughts a continuous image of light and sound, like a never ending dream?
McRib. It was a sandwich I hear. Never tried one. It’s all very highly suspicious, the food on that production line.
Also, Jonathon Swift’s “A Modest Proposal” pops to mind.
Children, yeah, I have a couple. Didn’t eat them. Didn’t put them in crib either. My ways are strange but include lots of cuddling and natural mothering. Also some frustration.
Kids, man.
I sat in the crib. I was a child at that time, but not anymore. Now I am grown and out of that crib. That crib that used to fit me no longer supports me. I sit here with my tears remember my old times, when I was just a small baby. I wish I could go back, but it wouldn’t be worth it. The years to come are far more important to me than the years behind.
tiny curled fingers reached up from soft lavender sheets, and they wrapped themselves tightly around the bars. her laugh was silver bells. her presence was the smile on my face.
Just like my crib, the shaking man whispered to himself while in fetal position on the courtroom floor, just like my crib.
As I looked into the small wooden baby holder, I realized that our creation, what we meant to make together was no longer there. Where did she go? Who has her? I swore she was there the night before. In fact, I can still see a soft imprint of her body. She is gone. But where. That is my life’s purpose. To find out.
Nothing to do with babies. To crib, when I was at school, meant to copy homework or exam answers from another pupil – with or without their knowledge. Allowing someone to crib your own work could be a powerful tool. Our school bully was a thug named Nick Dempsey who came from a long line of school bullies and hence the fear he engendered traveled before him as he moved through the school system. Apocryphal tales of the horrors and tortures his elder brothers had visited upon the oiks of their day were whispered in dread among the desks and in the bicycle sheds. I quickly noticed however that Dempsey, the self appointed terror of the playground and the journey home from school, was not actually the strongest person in the class. I noted how Dempsey always avoided Dennis Mahoney, a gentle and friendly sold who had the build and strength of the oxen he probably manhandled on his father’s farm. Mahoney never flaunted his strength, but neither did he interfere with Dempsey’s bullying, opting to mind his own business in all things to do with the daily trials of school life. Though I was no wimp myself, I was clever and Dempsey had a native contempt for all things clever, studious, who knows what. So he took to baiting me, tripping me up, charging brutally in sports tackles. I had no hesitation in swinging back at him but after collecting a couple of bloody noses and various bruises, I quickly grew tired of the thuggery. Mahoney was not the brightest knife in the school cutlery box, but he seemed keen to master the work nonetheless. Here was a doable deal if ever I saw one. I quickly drew up a pact with him. I would help him with homework and offer crib facilities by sitting next to him during class tests. In return, every time Dempsey lunged towards me he would find that Mahoney had inexplicable placed himself in his path. No blows were ever exchanged, but it took Dempsey, thick as he was, very little time to get the message. Some time later, I upped the ante by adding just a few friends and a couple of the most vulnerable little ones to the Mahoney protection racket. We had just started algebra, which I was OK with me, but to Mahoney it was as incomprehensible as a Hebrew Bible written in Chinese characters. Dempsey was left to pay a heftier price by bullying those who were game enough to fight back, costing him time, black eyes and a reduced reputation.
The hand that rocks the cradle may rule the world, but the hand that controlled the crib brough down the mighty of the school yard.
brotherhood, good time, sound, wooden, baby,music,climb, time, prepare
a baby, wood, black or grown,
Crib reminds me of Christmas! Ah, young ones as well as elders look forward to set up one with sincere eagerness!
Since the new baby arrived my husband keeps cribbing about the noise of the old crib we were given…..
I wish I could stay little forever. Remain in my crib. Oblivious to the feeling of responsibility, anguish, jealousy and heartbreak. I wish I could remain in my crib. Cry for milk and for a change of diaper.
the feeling of looking up and seeing her face.
to see the colours of the toys that hang.
to know that she will check on me again.
to not knowing that i will miss the security of these bars again
to think of the pillow i rested my head on.
I miss my crib and more than that i miss the joy of seeing her face looking down on me
He stood over the crib, watching his grandchild. No one else in the room noticed him, they were so entranced by the cute little bundle sleeping in their midst. But that little bundle’s grandfather didn’t care, all that mattered was that his grandson was healthy. They had paid him little heed when he was alive, anyway.
My ideal of the perfect crib has certainly changed over the years. The more days I spend on this earth the more I lean towards a smaller, but tastefully designed environment. Beautiful to behold, quick to clean and functionally sound. Those are my criteria.
I pick up the crying baby and try to soothe her, cuddle her out of her crib and see if she’s wet or hungry and I am still a little tired from lack of sleep since i’ve been up for two hours after getti
Baby, mommy, milk, sleepy, crying, comforting, newborn, rails, hanging toy mobile, mattress,
silence, loved it too much, it makes me tick every time i go there! there is no place like my crib in the mountain.
I placed the child in the crib next to the window, gazing out to the beach and watching the loneliness of people stroll along the beach. I wondered if they were alone as I felt today.
May does tend to keep most of her old items and necessities from Elijah’s time as a baby around. She knew they’d come in handy again, soon. “She’s going to sleep in it?!”
“Yes, Elijah, for the hundredth time. And don’t climb all over it, it was a gift.”
“You can’t let her sleep by herself in here!” Elijah proclaims with his voice and it echoes loud enough for May to hear shuffling near by. She sees Meredith in the corner but doesn’t call to him yet. “She’ll sleep next to my bed, you know. And why are you so against it?”
“You’re making her sleep alone,” He protests again.
“YOU slept alone in this very crib!”
“I know.” May finds herself staring at her young son’s intense, serious stare. “And look how *that* turned out.”
May sudden snort and laughter signals her defeat.
I said I knew him. Actually, I dated him. True story. Onto another true story, I remember my crib. It was wooden. Nothing special. I just remember being in there. And I have a false memory. Untrue story. A woman with a white apron holding several bottles on a tray. Being in an orphanage. That never happened. It may not feel like it sometimes but I do know my biological parents. I do know them and they raised me, I guess.
i think a baby would be nice. to hold a life in your arms, your heart. it would be nice.
to see that someone, something, out there doesn’t see the bad in you, just the good. too pure and perfect to see your flaws. just your love.
i think it would be nice.
The swinging crib. Why had she got it so early on? Never used, never would be. It was now just a storage for toilet paper and some extra towels she had planned to give to her sister’s dogs. Maybe the crib should go too. Now it was just a reminder of the life she would never lead.
The empty feeling was the worst thing. It ate at the corner of his mind wherever he looked, but hurt most when he laid eyes on the bare, wooden crib.
A sharp, frozen feeling sliced through his composure, and suddenly he couldn’t stop the raw sob that tore itself from his throat after days of restraint.
she jumped out of her painstaked jail called a bed for babies. Landed right on her face. didn’t make a sound. then she ran to the solace of her grandparents bed. somehow in the morning, she ended up back in the crib.
Rotted boards creaked underneath our combined weight. It was dark—hardly enough light for us to see. The attic was cluttered: broken remnants of furniture, a rusted bed frame, a dust-covred crib in the far corner, and countless heavy wooden trunks. We looked helplessly at the mess, both of us doubting that we’d find what we came for.
My house is a not a crib. The last time I had a crib, I was an infant sleeping in a bed with elevated sides. Isn’t there such a thing as a corn crib. What other forms of cribs are there? Didn’t they used to talk about cheating using a crib sheet? It’s a funny word, this crib. But I used it in my one word essay du jour.
baby swinging high in your tree top,
tiny fingers dangling from between the bars,
a twitch and drip,
liquid rubies spattered across the yard,
as you sway in the breeze,
rocked by whispering lullabies,
into a sleep as dark as your mind
So many words to describe it. If you come from a certain place, a crib is a home. It’s your ‘place’. It’s the part of you that you want others to see and identify with. At the same time, a crib is a place where you first lived – not the home you reside in now, but a home you had first starting out. Not everyone gets a crib, though. For some it’s just a bassinette. For others it’s a crook in your dad’s shoulder where you lived for a few months. For even others, a crib is confining. Maybe you needed to bust out. Maybe you needed a place to branch out into and the crib wasn’t quite the place. I don’t remember my crib. I’ve seen pictures – a beautiful, blue rocker with the family name painted across in bright, golden yellow. I don’t remember it. But I love the idea that that’s where I was nurtured and cherished. And I’ll remember it for that — always.
babies sleep in cribs. they are their one place they spend most of their time if not ith their parents. I used to have a crib, its was a drawer in my mothers dresser. Cribs usually come with mobiles to occupy babies.
I let my tears drip down the white railing of the emty crib and onto the pink sheets that were cleanly spread on the tiny bed just as they were 5 months ago when I had set them. I ran my hand through my hair and let the thoughts of hatred consume me. I let myself scream at myself. I let all the hurtful comments circle me faster in a spiral motion. I watched the empty crib and imagined a tiny bundle of joy with my eyes and his smile. I listened to the lulluby of the speaker next to the lonely crib. I wondered what it would be like to finally have a child of my own. I let my hand come down on my stomach and wondered what went wrong.
The baby cried in her little crib. So much noise. The mother woke up, still sleepy. Don’t cry little baby I’m here now. The little baby, realizing her mother was here with her, hugged her and the crying was soon quited.
Mothers and babies. So much connection. Just one cry and the mother was there. How I wish it was easy like that. When you have a problem you go to your parents.
It was hard when you grow up. You experience different things but sometimes you don’t go to your mom or dad. This must be hard for them too. Not having connections to them.
Sometimes misunderstandings, mixed signals and everything else.
trapped in the cradle of your boddy,
the heart thunders, beating, throbbing,
and finally stills,
trapped in a crib of rib bones.
WHen I was little I would always escape from my crib. I was also afraid of the song that says that the cradle will fall because a cradle is like a crib. My parents also call cribbage crib.
I don’t like this word. It drips with childish capturing things. “MTV Cribs” is no more mature than a baby’s cradle.
The only family left in the street was the Johnsons, and they were recently blessed with a child of their own. This child was even more special than you’d think, as the Johnson family spent many long months trying for a child of their own. Finally, after all this time, they had their little Emily, and she was as good a baby as any. She didn’t cry, or scream. But she did make noise in the night. Like knocking the furniture and howling.
the cradle was empty, just like the crib. it had been for years. in fact, it had never been occupied. it rocked slowly, gently, as the tears ran down the would-be mother’s face. they fell quietly onto her skirt, a tear for every strike of the clock. for every child that never was.
My uncle placed us side-by-side in our cribs, smiling at our happy, sleepy gurgles. We each wriggled into our blankets and let out simultaneous contented sighs.
My mothers arms circle me as she places me inside a warm cocoon of comfort. Blankets engulf me and she places cool lips on my forehead as she bades me good night. Bliss inside the crib. This is what it feels like to be little again.