You guys, this baby.
Names I call him:
Baby
Sugar
Sunshine
Honey Boy
Darlin’
Chunk
Beautiful
Handsome
Pumpkin
Gorgeous
Precious
Squidge
Sweetie Pie
Lovey
Angel Cakes
Shnookies
Bubs
Peaches
Sunny Boy
Bugga Boo
Mr. Hunka Munka
The last few weeks my son and daughter-in-law have been moving houses, so I’ve had Baby at least parts of four days this week (and I think I saw him on the days between, too). It’s been so much fun!
Monday, for example, I was only going to have him for several hours in the afternoon, but then I realized we were going to Foodie Group that night, so I offered to take him with us and then drop him off on our way home. My son was like, Well, sure!
And so I ended up having him for nine hours straight.
Days Baby comes, I often get up early to get work done beforehand. His arrival frees me from the tyranny of my to-do list, and then I slip into vacation mode.
In the brief moments he’s self-occupied, I putts around the house, prepping our next meal or emptying the dish drainer. Sometimes, we run errands together, or go visit my mom, or I take him along on a walk with a friend. When he needs to pee, I dangle him over the deck railing (they’ve been potty training him since birth), and then kiss his toes and poke his tummy while snapping him into a fresh diaper. I talk to him constantly, asking questions, narrating my every move, and pointing out everything, like the cars driving by and the miracles of running water.
When he tires, I sing. Right now, Wheels on the Bus is top of the charts for his sleepy-sleepy song, but sometimes I switch it up with rumbly, made-up tunes hummed low and off-key, or hymns.
While he sleeps (as he is now), I write.
“My son has asked me to watch the baby three days in a row this week,” I told my friend, shaking my head. “What am I going to do about work?”
She suggests I tell them I’m not available, but no, I don’t want to do that.
“Well, what do you want to do?”
“Take care of the baby! FORGET CHEESE. All I want ever is be with the baby!” I was practically shouting.
“Then do that,” she said. “Say yes.”
And so I do, over and over again, because he is the best thing ever.
There were a few rough spells when we started watching him more regularly, so I asked them to send along a dirty shirt of my daughter-in-law’s.
They swap out shirts so he can always have a fresh dirty one, and Baby is a fan. He’ll grab the T-shirt of Love (my name for it) with both hands and then smash his head into it. The good smells soaked up, he’ll look up at me all smiles, and then a flash of confusion crosses his face.
Ha, he knows!
The Five Positions of Baby
First Position: Center
When I show up at his place, or he at mine, and I first pick him up, he often leans his temple against mine, his body slumps, and he stares ahead, vacant-eyed, like he’s docked into a charging zone.
Second Position: Outward
He perches on my belly, or on my hip, and faces out, solemnly watches the goings-on: Danny Boy chasing after his ball. The tree branches shuddering in the breeze. The churning fan blades. The big people charging around the house.
Third Position: Face-to-Face
He grips my fingers and rises to his feet, babbling with self-importance. I jiggle him in the air above my head and he cackles. I kiss him all over his neck and tummy, and he blinks, tense with anticipation. Sometimes his entire body grows still, except for his eyes, flickering as they rove over my face.
Fourth Position: Floor
Flat on his back, he kicks wildly, thrumming his feet on the ground, nostrils flared and mouth wide. I hang over him, talking and teasing, egging him on. I toss a cloth on his face and then yank it away, and he gasps and giggles. In the center of the rug, he’s a bottomless sinkhole into which I pour my attention.
Fifth Position: Shoulder
When he grows fussy, I hoist him into my arms and dangle the T-shirt of Love. He grabs it with both hands and rams his face into it, pressing against my collar bone. I sing, low and gravely, my words punctuated with steady butt-thwacks. Soon, I feel his little face stretch in a yawn, and then, slowly, his body grows heavy. As he drifts, he sometimes sings on the exhale — just once or twice — and then he’s out.
My love for this baby is different than my love for my own children.
With them, my love was all-consuming and fierce, and burdened with responsibility. Everything about my children — their behavior, sleep patterns, diet — was mine to manage, and it all reflected back on me.
This baby, I love without expectation, restraint, or judgment. Without fear of usurping the parents’ role. Without a need to fix anything, or control.
I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone this freely before, which is a quite unsettling to discover, really. Fifty years and I didn’t even know love could feel like this? Where have I been!
This didn’t just happen, though. It’s not like I’ve fallen under a spell, or am victim to my emotions.
Rather, I chose it.
It’s like launching myself down a slide. Just so happens that the ride is more thrilling than I could ever have imagined, and it just keeps going and going and going.
I could get off, I suppose, or I could dig my heels in and slow my descent — but no thanks.
Instead, I’m a-gonna throw my arms high and speed even faster, wheeee!
This same time, years previous: midway, the quotidian (8.15.22), chocolate milk, almond apricot pound cake, breaking horses, the beginning of the end, bourbon and brown sugar peach pie, tomato bread pudding with caramelized onion and sausage, on getting lucky, knowing my questions, not your typical back-to-school post, a piece of heaven.
