Two Vignettes for Baby

Like an ape, leading with his belly, shoulders thrust back and arms trailing behind him, he strides around the house free range, a tiny man in charge of his own destiny.   From my work in the kitchen or laundry room or office, I keep an ear out.  All goes well until I hear the inevitable “slap slap slap” sound of little hands climbing up the stairs, I go and pull him down, redirect.  He loves being chased up the stairs.  He has a soft cloud of light brown hair with a faint reddish tint, and I tousle it and smooth it and run my fingers through it, baby fine and fluffy, growing thicker now.   I remember what a shock it was to me when I opened my eyes one day and Jack had “little boy hair,” with all the downy soft new-baby fuzz already gone while I wasn’t paying attention.

With this one, I pay attention.

I don’t get up with him in the wee hours these days – he’s a good sleeper, for the most part, so long as we keep up his familiar routine.  Last night he woke at midnight for no apparent reason – just fussy, perhaps woken by a singing glow-worm doll that he sleeps with now.  I heard his cries and rolled reluctantly out of my own bed downstairs, then fumbled with making a bottle in the dim glow of the fridge light.  I trudged up the stairs, lifted him out of the crib, carried him into the guest bed to cuddle and drink it down.  He nestled in close, immediately mostly asleep.  As he half-heartedly drank down the bottle, he reached around awkwardly to press his palm against my cheek, and we sat there together, my forehead on his chin, my body curled around his.  After this one is grown, never again will one of my own babies press a tiny palm against my cheek.  I breathed him in, deep.  We settled into each other, and lay like that for a while.

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The Professor collects the leash and calls the dog to the front door, and we hear squeals of delight, and the thunder of tiny feet in giant shoes stomping down the hall.  Craig appears, running in his awkward, ape-like way, and reaches up to grab the leash just above the dog’s ears.  We are ready to go on the walk now.

Eject Craig from the daily dog-walking at your peril.  He will weep, heartbroken, staring out the front door window, the picture of pathos.  On the other hand, if you let him go along, he will march right out there with you, happily singing little baby nonsense.  He will hold the leash importantly, occasionally letting it go and stomping off to explore something in the neighbor’s grass, perhaps a tiny roly poly bug, or a flower.  I let him explore, though I draw the line at letting him eat the bugs and sticks he finds.  If I let him have his way, he’d walk a mile, chattering to himself all the way, abruptly falling over and then painstakingly working to get himself back upright, in that particular way that toddlers have of learning to move in the world.  I kind of hated the dog walking chore, before I gained my little helper.  He is my fresh pair of eyes.  He is delight at the smooth whorl of a tiny snail’s shell, consternation at the feel of wet grass on bare feet, surprise at the roughness of the asphalt.  A wide open face turned up toward the sky, just to see what’s up there.