Warm Baths of the Non-Water Kind

I had forgotten how easy it is to care for an infant. (Non-colic edition, of course.) They eat; they poop. They cry a bit; they sleep. And when they are awake or asleep, they feel so wonderful in your arms. Grace told me this morning that Mackenzie had slept through the night.

She is such a pleasant child. Truly pleasant. I loved my kids actively and was always pleased to be in their company - except when Boo had colic, and one day I got straight on that. But, Mackenzie is so serene, and so inquisitive, too.

This morning as I held her close to me, she smiled. I "saw" her one month ago. The changes . . .. We were sitting in my rocking desk-chair, having a bite to eat. She was wearing the outfit I call her "prison break model". A description of the long-sleeved, bootied, alternating three-quarter-inch tangerine- and peach- striped snapping sack could never convey how snuggly and perfectly cute is this child, this morning.

I let it wash over me, letting my head fall back and my eyes close. These changes . . ..

Holding the perfect infant girl, I thought of the departed "perfect woman". In her adult life, the latter brought to me the same fresh changes on a routine basis. Her adult-model size notwithstanding, she, too, was snuggly and perfectly cute. I suppose that the one I experience when I regard what appears to be the perfect woman is the perfect female infant from which she has sprung.

Mackenzie has begun to extend her pointy pretty tongue to its greatest possible length. In and out, her expression indicating that she is concentrating on the sensations of these motions. She smiles regularly, and is hearing her own voice with some curiosity and delight. She stretches and twists, and turns herself over once in a while. Last night, I dreamed she walked. I was so happy for her. The joy was not one of "parental pride", as I likely would have experienced in a similar dream about my own infant child. My dreammood was more one of confidence. I felt that Mackenzie was that much closer to be ready to go out in the world. But, yeah, also: I was pretty happy to know a kid who could walk at eight weeks of age.

I recall my complete absorption with Laura when she was this age. Bryan called it my "first-baby high". And that high still persisted when Boo came bawling into our world. We had this Mackenzie-esque critter delighting us day and night; and our newest member could not stop crying. Sometime just before Christmas, Janis Adams came and watched the girls one afternoon. Janice and I went to have a bite to eat, and some private time. We left with Sarah crying in Janis's arms. ("Janis", the verb; "Janice" the noun.) I remember closing the front door, and feeling relief that I would not hear the sounds for a bit. I looked forward to coming home in a couple of hours to a sleeping brood.

After a nice meal and sweet talk, we returned to find . . . Sarah crying. The stress on Janis's face - conveying helplessness, not frustration or anger - triggered in me an understanding of what Janice and I were undergoing. I took Boo, feeling not just helplessness, but also frustration and anger. I was feeling, "Why are you crying like this? Laura doesn't cry like this!" This was practically "not-fun", and everything to date had been perfect fun.

I walked off with Boo in my arms, and tapped into my more-patient and tender side. (A side which some allege exists only in my imagination.) I sat in the living room and tried to comfort her. She cried. She whimpered. She screamed as if she were being tortured. A sunbeam flowed through the window and warmed my face and the top of Boo's head. She sucked in air, to restore her fuel for more noise. (You have heard a crying child suck wind, collecting himself, after expending so much to communicate through his wails?) As the sun's warmth cozied my body and soul, I felt something within me. I felt pain. I felt untreatable . . . pain. I looked down at this beautiful little girl, straining to breathe, and I said out loud, "The reason you are crying is because you hurt so much." My warm tear anointed my copper-topped daughter.

After that, the sounds of Sarah's crying were heard with the same ears as those that heard "Daaa" from Laura, or perhaps a simple clearing of her throat by Janice. And one day, the crying stopped. What remained was the one I came to call "Boo", in response to her serene manner.

I have moments now of thankfulness that Mackenzie is not feeling this sort of pain. I smile close-lipped at her when this washes over me, appreciating that there is the absence of that hurt in her life.

She is staying awake for longer stretches now, looking around with eyes that focus better. She has the Boo-like expression of withholding judgment - obviously gathering information to be processed and commented upon at a later and appropriate time.

It is clear that this serenity is a form of prescience. It is clear that this child lacks the fearfulness that one observes in the eyes of some infants. She seems to have been born with a temperament of calm. Her upbringing to date has been loving and responsible - without being smothering, spoiling, coddling, enabling. I am one of a group of stewards of this fresh spirit. I am one who must be vigilant in my efforts to remain mindful that Mackenzie's early prescience is a call to me and the others. The call urges us to allow her to wash over us, to allow her to unfold in love before us, to show her the world while assuring her that there exists a simple and small life, to which she can return at all times.