Growing up, whenever I saw my mother wearing her robe, it meant that comfort was on the way.
Whether I was throwing up during the night or feeling groggy at the breakfast table, her disheveled appearance in the robe meant that she wasn't caring about herself -- she was caring for me.
Yes, when Mom wore her robe, I knew I was being taken care of. She was tending to me, and things would get better soon.
It's funny the things that a child's mind ponders. When Dad and I would leave the house for work and school in the mornings, my young mind used to think that if Mom stayed at home in her robe all day, she'd be holding onto all the comfort of home for us, saving it for us when we'd return.
If my stomach was upset at school, I'd imagine my mother, sitting at home in her robe, always ready to take care of me, if I should come home early. It was a silly, unrealistic thought (because my mother certainly got dressed and usually went out for errands every day), but the imagery brought me comfort -- and still does today.
Perhaps one of the most special memories I have of Mom wearing her robe was when she stayed over here at the house, shortly after we brought our newborn baby Liam home from the hospital. She got up with me for the middle-of-the-night feedings, and--once again--her disheveled appearance in the robe was reflecting where her heart was. It was with me, and she was fully empathizing and sharing in my experience of exhaustion mixed with immense joy.
Now today, I'm the mom. I'm the one who wears the robe and gets up at 2 AM when Macy has diarrhea or at 5 AM when Liam's diaper has soaked through to the sheets. I'm the mom who wears the robe as she packs her husband's lunch and kisses him good-bye on frosty mornings. And when I slip into my robe mid-day to get comfy as I nurse Liam into his afternoon nap, I believe--for those precious moments--that indeed I am safeguarding all the comfort in the world.
In the way that Liam responds to me wearing the robe, I think it just might be true. :)
