This weekend, I visited some friends who recently had a baby. I arrived with gifts and the usual eighty-five pounds of cold cuts I bring when dropping in on the newly multiplied (new parents need food that does not require heating and can be eaten with one hand) dressed in one of my "I'm not with my kids" outfits, which included The Shoes, ready for a fun afternoon of reminiscing about my days as a teacher with this former colleague of mine.
After lunch, the baby woke up and my travel companion, another former colleague of mine who, as of yet, does not have children, asked if he could hold the baby. After a decent interval, he said he didn't want to hog all the baby-holding time and asked me would I like a turn. "Of course!", was my answer. What did I really want to say? "No thanks, I've had a turn for the past six years." But I took the baby, smelled that wonderful, new baby smell and the little guy rewarded me by starting to whimper, presumably to be fed. "I think he's hungry", I told his mother and handed him off straight away lest he spit up on my adorable, green, corduroy blazer or, God forbid, my shoes. My friend, ever-observant and witty said, "Wow. It's like he was spring-loaded." Well.
OK, I'll say it. I do not like to hold babies that are not my own.* Yes, I am the devil. This was not always the case. Before I had kids, I jockeyed for baby-rocking rights with the best of them, swooping in before an elderly aunt could get her claws on a newborn relative so I could rock him to sleep. It was fun imagining myself as a mother and seeing the look in Hubby's eyes as he pictured me, I'm sure, with our own offspring, made my ovaries ache.
But now, dear readers, the bloom is off the rose. I've held my own babies for what must amount to years' worth of time. Was and is it wonderful? Yes, and at times, no. I liken my new-found distaste for cradling the recently born to asking a grave digger if he'd like to come help you turn over your garden on Sunday. It's what I do for a living, I do not enjoy doing it during my off hours. Again, evil? Sure, but I like to use my down time to recharge my holding-feeding-butt-wiping batteries for my own children's benefit so let me give these guns a rest.
These awkward hot-potato-baby moments also happen most often on weekends and holidays when Hubby is on duty with my own progeny and I am either away from them or he is around to do the messy stuff. I am also usually dressed up and/or having a glass of wine as well and, as I have mentioned in previous posts, nothing is more alluring to a baby than long, carefully blown-out hair or dry clean only clothing. I just want to enjoy my moment of child-free-not-wearing-yoga-pants-and-a-sweatshirt bliss. In fact, holidays are the perfect time for the beleaguered mother to get a break with all the grandparents, aunts and uncles around who are just dying to get a hold of your little bundle of joy - and any mother who denies loving this perk is a big, fat, fucking liar.
My apologies to anyone whose baby I have held recently. I love you and your child, really, I do. It's just that when I am out of "Mommy mode" I'd kind of like to stay that way for a while. If you visit me on a workday when I am battle-ready and wearing my machine washable armor having tied my hair back then I'll while the day away holding your kid so you can get some peace. Just remember that feeling if we meet on a holiday or festive occassion becuase odds are, Hubby is chasing Little Man around while simultaneously trying to get #2 to pee and #1 asks him to braid her hair, and know I am trying to enjoy some peace of my own.
*Jean - I was obviously dressed in Mommy clothes (as evidenced by the ever-present ponytail) when I saw you and wild horses could not have stopped me from getting my mitts on that little guy.
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