When the baby was just a couple weeks old, my daughter-in-law sent a photo of him to the family chat.
“Can I come snuggle him tomorrow?” I texted back, which was a foolish thing to ask, because then my younger daughter chimed in, “Me, too!” and I was like, Well, shoot.
When I arrived the next afternoon for my scheduled Baby Time, my older daughter was holding him, my younger daughter had just left, and my younger son was waiting for his few minutes of glory.
I had to wait a whole freaking 45 minutes to get my hands on that magical little creature.
I’m never making that mistake again.
***
You’ve heard the poem about babies not keeping, I’m sure.
The cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,
For children grow up, as I’ve learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust go to sleep.
I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep.
When my kids were little, I thought that poem was whack. I cuddled them lots, but even as I marveled at their silky skin and fuzz-capped heads, I always longed to do something else.
Anything else.
Children bored me. Their persistent neediness weighed on me. I wanted to do my things on my time in my way. I adored them, but I didn’t (couldn’t?) relax into just being with them.
Newsflash: that poem isn’t for mothers (even if it is titled “Poem for a Fifth Child”) —
It’s for grandmothers.
***
In the last couple weeks, I have been upgraded to babysitting in my home.
When they call to see if I’m available, my answer is almost always, Yes, please!
Starting last week, they began leaving baby paraphernalia so they wouldn’t have to haul it over each time:an extra jar of frozen breastmilk, onesies, emergency disposables, a changing mat, a bottle. Now the baby has his very own dedicated bathroom shelf, which makes me ridiculously happy. Sometimes I even open the cupboard door just to gaze at the little things.
There is a baby in my life.
***
People always say the best part of being a grandparent is that you get to give them back to the parents, but I don’t agree.
To me, the best part is the way the baby settles me.
Holding him snuggled up against my cheek, inhaling his milk breath, brushing his warm skin with my lips every 20 seconds (I’m not even exaggerating, I’m a baby-kissing machine), my body relaxes. My nervous system settles. My anxiety and stress evaporate.
Holding him is better than therapy. Better than a nap. Better than a glass of wine.
It’s bliss.
***
When the baby comes over, everything else goes out the window. EVERYTHING. I hold him and sniff him and talk to him for hours.
My husband gets a kick out of my new crush. When he gets home from work, he’ll often ask, “Did you get to see your baby today?” He leans into the word “your” and his eyes twinkle.
I take the question very seriously, though, and if the answer is yes, he gets the full rundown:
How the baby peed five times and we had a long conversation on the sofa, and then I sat on the patio and let the dog sniff his toes, and then I gave him a bottle and he looked exactly like a space alien staring up at me, and how I’m pretty sure I discovered his favorite sleeping position because I can get him to fall asleep in five minutes flat — and so on.
I’m not sad when he leaves, but there’s always a twinge of panic. How long will it be until I see him again?
***
I think my mom is a little taken aback at how completely I’ve taken to my new role, how utterly absorbed I am (heck, I’m kinda floored) and then it recently dawned on me that my mother never got to experience what I have: geographical proximity to a first grandbaby.
That physical closeness isn’t something I take for granted, not for even a second. There are no guarantees I’ll ever be in this situation again.
So yeah, those cobwebs can wait.
I’m a-gonna soak up all the baby lovin’ I can get.
This same time, years previous: my mother’s gift, the quotidian (4.8.24), how I trick myself into writing, the coronavirus diaries: week 57, whole wheat sourdough bread, making space, missing Alice, beginner’s bread, when popcorn won’t pop, the greening.
