“It’s a privilege to hold a baby.”
That’s what my aunt said to me after I thanked her for holding G while I napped with Bub. It was September of last year. G was two weeks old and I was plumb exhausted.
Since then, her words have stuck with me, especially when I finally have a quiet moment with G. Most of the time, she has to share my attention with her brother. We find our quiet moments together at bedtime. When she’s asleep in my arms in the serenity of her room, the noise machine blocking out the rest of the world. Before my mind starts to wander, I sit and stare at her angelic face. Her long lashes fanning downward. Her perfect little pout resting in a frown. Her hands in prayer formation, folded over her chest. I listen to her quietly snore. The top of her head still has a newborn-even-though-she’s-not-a-newborn scent. I feel privileged to be able to hold a baby. My baby. My sleeping baby.
I’m afraid I’ll blink and she won’t be a baby anymore.
Every morning, Bub wakes me up by saying, “Mom, it’s daytime. Time to get up.” I slowly blink open my eyelids. Every fiber of my being wants to sleep longer.
I blink again and suddenly, it’s night time. Another day with the kids gone by.
I’m afraid to blink again.
“WHAT HAPPENED? Never had a good sense of time, but jesus-christ! Yesterday I’m wiping applesauce off my baby’s cheeks and today I’m wondering when she’ll retire. For years I didn’t wear a watch because I wanted to stop time. Now time stops me dead. Tic-Toc.”