My new grandson, Paul, is asleep on his back. Every now and then, he startles, his arms
flying up, fingers splayed, legs jerking in close to his body. His tiny brow furrows and his lips
purse. When our dog, Kody, twitched in
her sleep, we’d say, “She’s chasing rabbits.”
Absent bunnies or the ability to chase, what images flash through a
baby’s mind?
No wandering stuffed animals lie within Paul’s reach; no
blankets threaten to suffocate him.
Statistics on Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS) have banned such
comforts, but he snoozes on the floor, serene on his jungle mat, under curling
felt palm fronds and the gaze of a smiling giraffe. Lisa, Paul’s mom, is taking a much-needed
nap, and I’m stretched out on the brown velvet couch, keeping watch along with
the giraffe.
As a young mother, was I as anxious as I am now about this
baby’s safety when he is in my care? I
don’t remember worrying about catching a heel and pitching forward while
holding the baby, or thinking I might injure his hand while struggling to inch
his arm through a tight sleeve. When he
squalls, I’m saddened by his anguish, yet when he’s asleep, I stare fixedly at
his chest for its reassuring rise and fall.
I guess you forget.
You forget the jolt in the stomach in the middle of the night at hearing
a squawk soon after transferring the sleeping – so-asleep, definitely asleep – baby into the cradle. This, after an hour’s feeding and a half hour
of pacing and cooing, having gently eased the baby down, swaying and rocking as
you lower him, tricking him really, into thinking he’s still being held, even
as you’re settling him into a crib no longer filled with friendly stuffed
animals, buffered by cozy bumpers, and festooned with intriguing mobiles due to
those SIDS statistics. Who wouldn’t wake
up and wail?
You forget the awkward flurry of trying to get a fresh
diaper maneuvered into place before the baby poops on the changing table,
soiling another pad. You forget the
dodge and weave when you neglect to cover the baby’s penis and a jet of urine
barely misses you, soaking the brandy new outfit you’d laid out for the child,
and landing a droplet on the baby’s cheek.
You forget the knot in your back and your tired arms. How can eight pounds be so heavy?
More easily, you remember the child once cereal’s been added
to the menu, and that squawk is no longer a nightly occurrence. You remember a baby that has discovered his
or her hands, extraordinary appendages that swivel, wave, and whack toys, with
fingers that soothe better than a pacifier, thank God. And you remember a baby who knows you, and rewards your goofiness
with a smile.
Having a grandson blows memory’s veils aside some, and while
climbing lichened rocks splotched with emerald green mosses during a recent
hike, Dave, our friend Joanie, and I chuckled in recalling mishaps decades ago with
our newborns:
Joanie gingerly
tiptoeing across the hall, her arms curved in rock-a-bye mode, to re-place the
baby into her crib after nursing, only to discover her arms empty and Tracy
already there.
Me, awakening,
panicked because Tucker was not in my arms.
Desperately patting the bed around me, whipping back the sheets,
searching for the baby. Finally shaking
Dave awake to ask, “Where’s Tucker?!
He’s not here!” And his doting
father’s answer, “Who’s Tucker?”
FYI: the baby was not
under the pillows or on the floor, but, like Tracy, asleep in his cradle.
Last week, I commented to Tucker, now 35, something about
the delightful ease of breastfeeding.
There was a silence on the phone.
A noticeable silence. An audible
deep breath was drawn before he said, “Are you sure you’re remembering right
Mom? These two weeks have been hard.”
Maybe I have
forgotten. Certainly I remember the
first abysmal night home from the hospital.
Dave had cooked up a welcoming feast of steak, potatoes, and asparagus. After eagerly consuming dinner, I nursed the
baby, and Dave settled in for an all-nighter with his graduate school studies.
I’d not yet made the connection between my diet and the baby’s, and apparently
asparagus was too acidic. Tucker cried through the night, his mother along
with him. Dave tried to comfort us, and
I have a misty image of the three of us sobbing, but maybe, over the years,
that’s been added for spice. It’s a funny story, but at the time, it was
miserable. In that way memory is kind,
blurring over rough spots and throwing a halo around holy ones.
For I remember the scent of my freshly bathed babies, their
hair fluffy and soft as dandelion fuzz.
I remember downy cheeks and serene little faces, lips working, and lifting
into fleeting smiles. And when I
remember the miracle of my little ones, they are surrounded by an aura of light
and love that I had never known before. I look at Paul, peacefully sleeping, and I
remember… and feel it anew.
