On Babies and Families that are not mine...

I held a baby this weekend. The familiar baby-sway came back to me readily, as did the football hold which kept me from throwing my child out the window eleven years ago (it was one of the few things that shut her screaming, frothing, qivering cake- hole down for a few Gawdgiven minutes). This baby belongs to my Companions brother and wife. The tiny fingers with pearly nails, the carmel smell of his newly breastfed face, the warmth and weight of his body in my arms did not issue forth the siren song of motherhood. I was ever so grateful to be an aunty, to have and hold for time that is measured in moments or hours. I felt no *ping* in my loins begging me to "try again" That would be futile. I am barren now, snipped years ago.

I looked at the long and emotionally dusty faces of the parents, tired, drained, and totally in love with this new life, and I remembered the vast ocean of time that was the minutes before daddy came home, or the ever-slight hour that was not filled with screaming. It was a mixed blessing, giving life, bringing it forth, nurturing it, feeding it, making it safe. At the cost of doing the same for myself, or my doomed to failure marriage, I am glad I sqandered what I did have to give to my children. They have grown to amazingly viable people.

I feel gratitude that I can be a part of this infants life, watch him grow into being a Big Boy Charlie, make him giggle, soothe him as he needs it when I am there. And I am grateful in equal measure that I can hand him back to the mommy and daddy and wave goodbye and smile saying "See you next time Charlieroo!"