hey baby
Babies. Little fingernails scratching me today in the face as I rhythmically bounced my upper torso and as I rhythmically bounced my upper torso while I walked: in circles, down a short hallway, in front of mirrors. Pure skin next to skin that shows every imperfection; not proudly, but with a resigned defeat. My lips accidentally bumped her forehead and my lipstick came off and marked her skull, which was barely covered in soft light brown hair, though I tried to rub the faint redness away. Her little compact body so soft and muscular at the same time, every bit of excess flesh is economical and necessary, for her. Not for us, to nuzzle against with our noses or fingers. I felt a little bad, touching and holding this sweet baby who was teething, and nearly fuss-free despite the fact she was teething. I felt bad because babies are so pure, so vulnerable; they have no say over who gets to hold them, touch them. Here I was getting to hold her surprisingly squirm-free body, getting to place my puffy red cheek next to her round, unbelievably soft one, later covered in saliva. Here I was getting to balance her on one hip, getting to pat her back, getting to try and dab at her running nose and tearful eyes, getting to try and make her giggle by jiggling her on one spastic leg.
My arms held tight, firm, strong around little Maggie. It just felt right. For all the intellectualizing and theorizing and emotionally distancing I can do on the idea of having children, a baby in my arms feels so primal-ly true and correct. Older children are a different spectrum to navigate around emotionally. But babies. I feel an almost shame and guilt in admission of wanting to hold them, coo at them, let them take their miniature fingers in a clamping grasp around my smallest finger, and we meld into one being mamaandbaby.
It is biological? A bio or illogical instinct? I do not necessarily welcome the idea of larger children, babies that are grown, which consume just as much as [time, patience, love, needing, caring for, ad finitum] babies do, but in entirely different ways. But I hold a baby and something happens.
My brain switches into an irrational place, because I want with fervor, while I know that I have neither the emotional or financial reserves to be a mother. My heart kind of hurts. I hold on, treasuring it as if it will be the last time, the only time, I get to hold a baby. I hold a baby and think, “Will I ever hold one of these that I carried around inside me for nine months?” I already feel, as it is, my fertility is precarious at best. Also, I am a late bloomer in many other areas of my life. Will I get the chance, the right opportunity to have a baby of my own? Or any opportunity at all to have a baby? Will I ever even be in a position to have a baby, one that does not have half of my DNA?
I have been around the heartbreak that accompanies missed conceptions. I can empathize with the deep, gut-wrenching ache of not being given a chance at this “universal” role and passage and defining moment and expectation and label and weight of the world; perhaps empathetically without a good reason yet, but I still can relate. I believe I might have to travel down that path later in life. So I hold onto babies. Not too tight, not in a suffocating surrogate mommy dearest style, but with a confidence. Baby, you’re in good hands now. Baby, I’m not going to let you down.
My arms held tight, firm, strong around little Maggie. It just felt right. For all the intellectualizing and theorizing and emotionally distancing I can do on the idea of having children, a baby in my arms feels so primal-ly true and correct. Older children are a different spectrum to navigate around emotionally. But babies. I feel an almost shame and guilt in admission of wanting to hold them, coo at them, let them take their miniature fingers in a clamping grasp around my smallest finger, and we meld into one being mamaandbaby.
It is biological? A bio or illogical instinct? I do not necessarily welcome the idea of larger children, babies that are grown, which consume just as much as [time, patience, love, needing, caring for, ad finitum] babies do, but in entirely different ways. But I hold a baby and something happens.
My brain switches into an irrational place, because I want with fervor, while I know that I have neither the emotional or financial reserves to be a mother. My heart kind of hurts. I hold on, treasuring it as if it will be the last time, the only time, I get to hold a baby. I hold a baby and think, “Will I ever hold one of these that I carried around inside me for nine months?” I already feel, as it is, my fertility is precarious at best. Also, I am a late bloomer in many other areas of my life. Will I get the chance, the right opportunity to have a baby of my own? Or any opportunity at all to have a baby? Will I ever even be in a position to have a baby, one that does not have half of my DNA?
I have been around the heartbreak that accompanies missed conceptions. I can empathize with the deep, gut-wrenching ache of not being given a chance at this “universal” role and passage and defining moment and expectation and label and weight of the world; perhaps empathetically without a good reason yet, but I still can relate. I believe I might have to travel down that path later in life. So I hold onto babies. Not too tight, not in a suffocating surrogate mommy dearest style, but with a confidence. Baby, you’re in good hands now. Baby, I’m not going to let you down.