Hold On

Yesterday marked our baby’s first roll off a bed. Having witnessed this with two previous babies, it still surprises me by how hard and fast they fall. At seven months old, he now rolls, traverses a room in minutes, and has a remarkable knack for finding the most toxic, un-babyfriendly objects in the house. That’s what moving babies do. If it’s poisonous, flakes lead, is chokable, will shatter into glass shards, or could potentially cause electrocution, chances are your newly mobile baby has already found it and is gnawing on it right now.

Gone is our sleepy newborn. That beloved classical Indian dance head wobble he used to do when turned upright has disappeared. We now have a bouncy, giggly, wide-eyed baby who alternates between looking long and lean one day, and thick and sturdy the next. The pants he comfortably wore last week suddenly make him look like a fat man in tights. In the mornings, I unzip his sleep sack, lift him high over my head, and dodge the glistening strand of baby drool that drizzles onto the floor like warm maple syrup. I land his cheeks softly down on my lips. They feel rough from the cold. There are smoother, warmer spots under his chin thick with baby smell where I like to plant my nose. He's not as aromatic as his older sister who was like a Glade Plug-in of baby scent, but he still smells good. I lift him up over my head, and he shrieks, flapping his arms like an excited penguin about to take a plunge off an iceberg. I wrap his short koala bear legs around my waist, and carry him downstairs. He bounces and gurgles, spitting up chunks of milk because of the awkward way I'm holding him.

M.M. has shed his dark baby hair for the same golden fuzz his sisters sported before him. In the mornings, fine black one-inch hairs scatter his crib like pine needles after Christmas. The bald spot on the back of his head is starting to fill in with a lighter, coarser fuzz. When I glance at him, I sometimes see a boy looking back at me, and it seems that every day I discard another item of clothing, silently and sadly acknowledging that it will never be handed down in our house again.

As the youngest of three kids, he’s our last baby. The offspring factory is closed, and even though it was a unanimous decision to shut its doors, I’ve had a hard time accepting it. With the older two, I had worked through their baby years, employing a full-time nanny so that I could keep my advertising career going — a setup that made me miserable because my heart wanted nothing but to be at home by their side. When I finally got my chance to be a full-time parent, I had hoped that a third pregnancy would mean that I’d be able to make up for all the baby-time I missed. Instead, our family found ourselves suddenly moving cross-country only weeks after his birth, with boxes to pack and unpack, kids to get settled into school, and house renovations to oversee. This last much-anticipated baby-time has instead been embedded in chaos, uprootedness, sawdust and plaster, winter illnesses, holiday breaks from school, and endless snow days. I find myself seeking out moments of quiet for just him and me, trying to make the most of the few moments we get.

Last week, we got to the girls’ school pick-up 30 minutes early, and I strapped him into a baby wrap for a brisk winter walk around campus. He laughed as we passed a tree. The outstretched silvery limbs hovered over us, and he cackled as if recognizing an old friend. I stood there like a third wheel as he and this tree shared a joke. Babies do spooky things like that, like cats who meow at walls. They seem to connect with a world that we either can’t see, or can no longer see. They see meaning in the mundane. Humor in the ordinary. Connection with the invisible. An ordinarily overlooked tree that is simply standing as it has for the last 40 years is met with understanding and recognition by a baby in a wrap. It’s these moments of quiet magic that I will miss most when there are no more babies to care for. I find myself skipping Parent Child classes just because I'd rather be alone with M.M. than listen to some moms whine about how little sleep they've been getting. But it’s also in these classes that I’m forced to do nothing but sit and watch him play. At home, amidst all the household chores, I rarely just sit and observe him while he plays. It’s incredible what you notice when you’re being still. It’s equally surprising what you miss when pre-occupied with the demands of life. Maybe that’s why babies see joke-telling trees.

We reach the bottom of the stairs, his fuzzy head bobbing with every bump of our descent. I walk with him in my arms to the kitchen. I open the fridge door and look at the wide-eyed koala bear in stripey pants sitting on my hip, his toes splayed out as if sharing in the fascination. "What are we going to eat?" I ask. This question alone is exciting. He flaps his penguin wings excitedly. He’s ready for take-off. I hold on tight, not wanting him to go.