Holding Baby

By day, Baby is a Person, opinionated, entitled, and insistent. By day, Baby is Mischief, gleeful and purposeful in everything he does. By day, Baby is Energy, never walking if he can run, never sitting still if he can climb. By day, Baby is Affectionate, enthusiastically hugging his older siblings when they walk in from school, waiting atop the stairs with his arms outstretched. By day Baby is Commanding, imperiously bossing the rest of us around (with surprising effectiveness) while asking permission through adorably ill-concealed demands.

But now, in the evening stillness, Baby is mellow and mushy, cuddly and content in my arms. So I put him to sleep the way his father or I do every night, singing with him in the rocking chair and tucking him into the crib.

But tonight, when I tuck him in the crib and leave the room, Baby begins to cry. He doesn’t stop crying, so I break the sacred rule and take Baby out of his crib for a second chance.

Miraculously, the girls are at a neighbor. Miraculously, the boys are reading quietly on the couch. Miraculously, it’s calm and I have nowhere to go and nothing to do besides hold Baby and marvel with wonder at how much I love this delightful and determined little person.