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Please just go to sleep.” I silently beg the small pink bundle 1)cradled in my lap.
The old wooden rocking chair, creaking endlessly against the floorboards, seems to work against my best efforts to get my infant daughter, and myself, some much-needed rest.
Standing up, I try a new position. This time, 2)swaddling my daughter in her fuzzy blanket and holding her close to my chest. Her 3)squirms and 4)gurgles do nothing to reassure me that this will be an easy night. Mockingly, the 5)digital clock 6)flips to 3 am.
An overflowing laundry basket stares 7)menacingly from the corner of the room. I have tried it all—nursing, rocking, and even several different types of 8)pacifiers, which were promptly spit right back in my general direction, thank you very much.
Exhaustion begins to overwhelm me as tears start to flow, this time from me, the mother, the supposedly competent adult. Big blue eyes stare up at me, as the clock slowly ticks forward.
Why can’t this be easier? All I want to do is sleep. Looking around the room for something to get my mind off this seemingly endless night, I spot the blue and pink 9)patchwork quilt hanging on the 10)nursery wall. My grandmother wanted me to have a baby quilt, and began her 11)stitches before I was even pregnant.
At age 88, Grannie sensed that time was of the essence. I smile as I count seventeen hand-sewn 12)calico hearts. These are blocks full of love, I think to myself.
Somehow I feel my grandmother’s presence as I look up at the quilt she made for my daughter. She 13)rocked seven babies and never complained; a set of twins, when she only had clothes and supplies for one child.
I can do this. Just have patience, like Grannie. Looking up at the quilt, my memories take me back to childhood visits at my grandmother’s Western 14)Pennsylvania farm.
A 15)one-lane 16)gravel road led to the two-hundred-year-old farmhouse, where Grannie always welcomed me with a big kiss and 17)soft sugar cookie, complete with 18)raisin eyes, nose, and smile. Inhaling, I can again smell the comforting scents of a farm summer—freshly 19)baled hay, sweet, garden-fresh tomatoes, and mint leaves picked for a refreshing drink of tea. This was a good place—a homestead to our family for generations.
Closing my eyes, I can once again hear the familiar 20)swish—swish of cows’ tails shooing away flies in the barn. Grannie, busy washing 21)milkers for the 22)dairy cows each morning, takes time out to open the milk tank, showing me the swirling gallons ready to be sent to the local 23)dairy. She involves me in all of the farm chores, from 24)hoeing weeds to picking garden vegetables for supper.
“I am not a very fast bean-picker,” I comment, noticing my nearly empty basket.“Every bean you pick is one I don’t have to”, she smiles. “You are Grandma’s good helper.”
Stepping into the farmhouse, I can smell the 25)yeast rising on a miniature loaf of bread Grannie has made just for me.
“Just 26)pinch off the dough between your fingers”, she instructs, helping me make homemade 27)rolls and egg noodles. When I mistakenly turn the oven to 28)broil instead of bake, I am told that, “29)Elderberry pie always tastes better with a scoop of 30)vanilla ice cream on it anyway.”
Reaching up to touch the many careful stitches on my baby’s quilt, I remember afternoons spent sewing with Grannie as an 8-year-old girl, learning how to sew patchwork squares into blankets for my dolls. Colorful fabrics and pattern books cover the wooden dining room table, evidence of Grammie’s other projects put on hold.
Our time spent together is precious—time to thread a needle, talk, and feel the love between generations.
Standing now, as a young mother, looking at the quilt above her baby’s 31)crib, I am ashamed of my selfish thoughts. Why in the world am I crying? Sure, this is a rough night, but I have a perfectly healthy baby, and all the time in the world to love and comfort her.
This night won’t last forever, so I’d better take it all in—baby powder smells, 32)cuddly closeness, and ten tiny fingers wrapped around mine.
Feeling the supportive spirit of my grandmother, I bend down to kiss my baby’s soft cheek. A quilt covered in hearts reminds me of all that is really important in life.
Sh-h-h, my child—a grandmother’s legacy of love will 33)see us through this long night.
求求你快点睡吧，”我对她默念哀求道，小家伙裹在粉红襁褓里，被我抱在大腿上。
破旧的木摇椅在地板上不停地吱吱作响，似乎有意破坏我为哄小囡囡入睡和让自己也获得必要的休息所做的一切努力。
我站起身换了个姿势。这次我把她裹在毛茸茸的毯子里，紧抱在胸前。她不停地扭动，嘴里咕哝着，这让我确信这个夜晚不会好过。很讽刺，数字显示式时钟这时轻声敲响了——凌晨三点。
房间角落里，装得满满的洗衣篮不怀好意地盯着我。我已经试过所有的方法了——喂奶、摇晃，甚至试用了各式各样的橡皮奶头，可是奶汁立刻就喷溅得我满身都是，我的小姑奶奶啊。
我筋疲力尽了，忍不住流下泪来，虽然我是个理当胜任的成年母亲。女儿睁着湛蓝的大眼睛凝视着我，时间慢慢地滴答向前。
怎么就这么难呢？我只不过想睡个觉而已。这个夜晚显然漫长而难熬，为了转移注意力，我环顾四周，想找到点什么。结果我看到婴儿室的墙上，挂着一床由粉色和蓝色碎布拼成的被子。我奶奶希望我有一床婴儿被，她甚至在我怀孕之前就开始缝制了。
那年奶奶88岁，她感觉到时间的宝贵。当我数着被子上17朵手绣的印花布心形图案时，我笑了。这些图案全都凝聚着爱啊，我心想。
不知何故，当我抬头看到奶奶为我女儿缝制的被子时，我感觉奶奶就在我身边。她带大了7个孩子，却从未抱怨过。其中有些还是双胞胎，尽管当时她所拥有的衣服和生活用品只够一个婴儿穿用。
我也可以做到。只需耐心些，像奶奶那样。我抬头看着被子，回忆把我带回了童年。那时我常常去看望奶奶，她住在宾夕法尼亚州西部的农场里。
一条狭窄的碎石路通向已有200年历史的农场。奶奶总是热情地亲吻我，并用绵白糖曲奇饼招待我，曲奇饼上有用葡萄干装点的眼睛、鼻子和微笑表情。深吸一口气，我再次闻到了农场夏日那怡人的芳香——捆扎好的新鲜干草的味道，菜园里刚摘下的西红柿的味道，用来泡茶提神的新采的薄荷叶的味道。这是一个好地方——是我们祖祖辈辈的家园。
我闭上眼睛，再次听到了那熟悉的嗖嗖声，那是牛棚里牛儿甩动尾巴驱赶苍蝇的声音。每天早上，我那忙于清洗给牛儿用的挤奶器的奶奶都会特意走去打开牛奶储存库，让我看那些奶液旋流的牛奶桶，它们会被卖给当地的乳品店。奶奶让我干农场里的各种杂活，从除草到去菜园摘晚餐用的蔬菜等等。
“我摘豆子太慢了。”我看着自己几乎全空的菜篮，自嘲道。“你每摘一颗豆子都让我省了一点力气，”她微笑着说道，“你是奶奶的好帮手。”
一踏进农舍，我就闻到了奶奶专门为我做的小面包散发出来的酵母粉味道。
“把你手指缝里的生面团捏下去。”奶奶指示道。她在教我自制肉卷和鸡蛋面条。当我错把烤箱上的烘焙设成烤炙时，我会听到这样的话：“不管怎么样，接骨木水果派上加一勺香草冰激凌，味道就更好了。”
我伸出手抚摸婴儿被上那细密紧致的针脚，想起了那些和奶奶一起做针线活的下午时光。那时我才8岁，跟着奶奶学习把一块块碎布缝制成小毯子，给我的布娃娃用。当餐厅的木桌上摆放着色彩斑斓的织物和图案书籍时，那意味着奶奶又在酝酿新计划了。
我们一起度过的时光无比珍贵——一起穿针引线、聊天、感受祖孙之间的深情。
此刻，我作为一名年轻的母亲站在这里，看着女儿婴儿床上方的那床被子，我为自己有那些自私的念头感到羞耻。我究竟在哭些什么呢？没错，这是一个难熬的夜晚，但是我有一个很健康的宝宝，我有这么多的时间去爱她，安慰她。
这个夜晚会过去的，所以我最好还是完整地体会它——婴儿爽身粉的味道，亲昵的爱抚，还有握在我手里的十根小手指。
我感觉到奶奶的精神在给我支持，不禁弯下腰去亲吻女儿柔嫩的脸颊。一床布满心形的被子，提醒我要记取生活中那些真正重要的东西。
嘘，我的孩子——奶奶留下来的爱会帮助我们度过这漫漫长夜。
The old wooden rocking chair, creaking endlessly against the floorboards, seems to work against my best efforts to get my infant daughter, and myself, some much-needed rest.
Standing up, I try a new position. This time, 2)swaddling my daughter in her fuzzy blanket and holding her close to my chest. Her 3)squirms and 4)gurgles do nothing to reassure me that this will be an easy night. Mockingly, the 5)digital clock 6)flips to 3 am.
An overflowing laundry basket stares 7)menacingly from the corner of the room. I have tried it all—nursing, rocking, and even several different types of 8)pacifiers, which were promptly spit right back in my general direction, thank you very much.
Exhaustion begins to overwhelm me as tears start to flow, this time from me, the mother, the supposedly competent adult. Big blue eyes stare up at me, as the clock slowly ticks forward.
Why can’t this be easier? All I want to do is sleep. Looking around the room for something to get my mind off this seemingly endless night, I spot the blue and pink 9)patchwork quilt hanging on the 10)nursery wall. My grandmother wanted me to have a baby quilt, and began her 11)stitches before I was even pregnant.
At age 88, Grannie sensed that time was of the essence. I smile as I count seventeen hand-sewn 12)calico hearts. These are blocks full of love, I think to myself.
Somehow I feel my grandmother’s presence as I look up at the quilt she made for my daughter. She 13)rocked seven babies and never complained; a set of twins, when she only had clothes and supplies for one child.
I can do this. Just have patience, like Grannie. Looking up at the quilt, my memories take me back to childhood visits at my grandmother’s Western 14)Pennsylvania farm.
A 15)one-lane 16)gravel road led to the two-hundred-year-old farmhouse, where Grannie always welcomed me with a big kiss and 17)soft sugar cookie, complete with 18)raisin eyes, nose, and smile. Inhaling, I can again smell the comforting scents of a farm summer—freshly 19)baled hay, sweet, garden-fresh tomatoes, and mint leaves picked for a refreshing drink of tea. This was a good place—a homestead to our family for generations.
Closing my eyes, I can once again hear the familiar 20)swish—swish of cows’ tails shooing away flies in the barn. Grannie, busy washing 21)milkers for the 22)dairy cows each morning, takes time out to open the milk tank, showing me the swirling gallons ready to be sent to the local 23)dairy. She involves me in all of the farm chores, from 24)hoeing weeds to picking garden vegetables for supper.
“I am not a very fast bean-picker,” I comment, noticing my nearly empty basket.“Every bean you pick is one I don’t have to”, she smiles. “You are Grandma’s good helper.”
Stepping into the farmhouse, I can smell the 25)yeast rising on a miniature loaf of bread Grannie has made just for me.
“Just 26)pinch off the dough between your fingers”, she instructs, helping me make homemade 27)rolls and egg noodles. When I mistakenly turn the oven to 28)broil instead of bake, I am told that, “29)Elderberry pie always tastes better with a scoop of 30)vanilla ice cream on it anyway.”
Reaching up to touch the many careful stitches on my baby’s quilt, I remember afternoons spent sewing with Grannie as an 8-year-old girl, learning how to sew patchwork squares into blankets for my dolls. Colorful fabrics and pattern books cover the wooden dining room table, evidence of Grammie’s other projects put on hold.
Our time spent together is precious—time to thread a needle, talk, and feel the love between generations.
Standing now, as a young mother, looking at the quilt above her baby’s 31)crib, I am ashamed of my selfish thoughts. Why in the world am I crying? Sure, this is a rough night, but I have a perfectly healthy baby, and all the time in the world to love and comfort her.
This night won’t last forever, so I’d better take it all in—baby powder smells, 32)cuddly closeness, and ten tiny fingers wrapped around mine.
Feeling the supportive spirit of my grandmother, I bend down to kiss my baby’s soft cheek. A quilt covered in hearts reminds me of all that is really important in life.
Sh-h-h, my child—a grandmother’s legacy of love will 33)see us through this long night.
求求你快点睡吧，”我对她默念哀求道，小家伙裹在粉红襁褓里，被我抱在大腿上。
破旧的木摇椅在地板上不停地吱吱作响，似乎有意破坏我为哄小囡囡入睡和让自己也获得必要的休息所做的一切努力。
我站起身换了个姿势。这次我把她裹在毛茸茸的毯子里，紧抱在胸前。她不停地扭动，嘴里咕哝着，这让我确信这个夜晚不会好过。很讽刺，数字显示式时钟这时轻声敲响了——凌晨三点。
房间角落里，装得满满的洗衣篮不怀好意地盯着我。我已经试过所有的方法了——喂奶、摇晃，甚至试用了各式各样的橡皮奶头，可是奶汁立刻就喷溅得我满身都是，我的小姑奶奶啊。
我筋疲力尽了，忍不住流下泪来，虽然我是个理当胜任的成年母亲。女儿睁着湛蓝的大眼睛凝视着我，时间慢慢地滴答向前。
怎么就这么难呢？我只不过想睡个觉而已。这个夜晚显然漫长而难熬，为了转移注意力，我环顾四周，想找到点什么。结果我看到婴儿室的墙上，挂着一床由粉色和蓝色碎布拼成的被子。我奶奶希望我有一床婴儿被，她甚至在我怀孕之前就开始缝制了。
那年奶奶88岁，她感觉到时间的宝贵。当我数着被子上17朵手绣的印花布心形图案时，我笑了。这些图案全都凝聚着爱啊，我心想。
不知何故，当我抬头看到奶奶为我女儿缝制的被子时，我感觉奶奶就在我身边。她带大了7个孩子，却从未抱怨过。其中有些还是双胞胎，尽管当时她所拥有的衣服和生活用品只够一个婴儿穿用。
我也可以做到。只需耐心些，像奶奶那样。我抬头看着被子，回忆把我带回了童年。那时我常常去看望奶奶，她住在宾夕法尼亚州西部的农场里。
一条狭窄的碎石路通向已有200年历史的农场。奶奶总是热情地亲吻我，并用绵白糖曲奇饼招待我，曲奇饼上有用葡萄干装点的眼睛、鼻子和微笑表情。深吸一口气，我再次闻到了农场夏日那怡人的芳香——捆扎好的新鲜干草的味道，菜园里刚摘下的西红柿的味道，用来泡茶提神的新采的薄荷叶的味道。这是一个好地方——是我们祖祖辈辈的家园。
我闭上眼睛，再次听到了那熟悉的嗖嗖声，那是牛棚里牛儿甩动尾巴驱赶苍蝇的声音。每天早上，我那忙于清洗给牛儿用的挤奶器的奶奶都会特意走去打开牛奶储存库，让我看那些奶液旋流的牛奶桶，它们会被卖给当地的乳品店。奶奶让我干农场里的各种杂活，从除草到去菜园摘晚餐用的蔬菜等等。
“我摘豆子太慢了。”我看着自己几乎全空的菜篮，自嘲道。“你每摘一颗豆子都让我省了一点力气，”她微笑着说道，“你是奶奶的好帮手。”
一踏进农舍，我就闻到了奶奶专门为我做的小面包散发出来的酵母粉味道。
“把你手指缝里的生面团捏下去。”奶奶指示道。她在教我自制肉卷和鸡蛋面条。当我错把烤箱上的烘焙设成烤炙时，我会听到这样的话：“不管怎么样，接骨木水果派上加一勺香草冰激凌，味道就更好了。”
我伸出手抚摸婴儿被上那细密紧致的针脚，想起了那些和奶奶一起做针线活的下午时光。那时我才8岁，跟着奶奶学习把一块块碎布缝制成小毯子，给我的布娃娃用。当餐厅的木桌上摆放着色彩斑斓的织物和图案书籍时，那意味着奶奶又在酝酿新计划了。
我们一起度过的时光无比珍贵——一起穿针引线、聊天、感受祖孙之间的深情。
此刻，我作为一名年轻的母亲站在这里，看着女儿婴儿床上方的那床被子，我为自己有那些自私的念头感到羞耻。我究竟在哭些什么呢？没错，这是一个难熬的夜晚，但是我有一个很健康的宝宝，我有这么多的时间去爱她，安慰她。
这个夜晚会过去的，所以我最好还是完整地体会它——婴儿爽身粉的味道，亲昵的爱抚，还有握在我手里的十根小手指。
我感觉到奶奶的精神在给我支持，不禁弯下腰去亲吻女儿柔嫩的脸颊。一床布满心形的被子，提醒我要记取生活中那些真正重要的东西。
嘘，我的孩子——奶奶留下来的爱会帮助我们度过这漫漫长夜。