I’ve been on a bit of a baby kick lately and I’ll tell you why. Babies bring you so far from yourself, they drag you out of who you think you are, and pull you further and further away towards a new type of selflessness. With fistfuls of hair and gummy mouths they show you how infinite the world actually is. A forced, understood necessity, they require your attention and settle for nothing. Holding a baby is greater than falling in love, ten minutes feels like ten hours; it’s addicting.
I’m shown my deepest uncertainties, as I cringe at my inability to comfort a three month old. I realize I have no idea how to swaddle and wail with him. Everything I do is to understand them, picking apart the possible discomforts, clamoring to help, attempting to stay graceful. A blue eyed baby girl clings to me, I switch hips and consistently want to be better, no, the best, for this small human being that doesn’t even belong to me. There is a special place inside my memory for these feelings, tiny houses of perfection locked in time, life feels the most simplistic when I am holding other people’s children.
If I could bottle the feeling I would.