Earlier today I got to meet my friend Jennifer’s son. Jennifer’s son is seven weeks old, and eleven pounds. The has a shock of black hair, blue eyes, deliciously smooth skin and a lovely temperament. In short, he is the perfect baby. I was lucky enough to hold the baby, and give him a bottle (pumped breast milk… relax LLL).
You never forget how to hold a baby. Once you’ve rocked a baby, you know how they’re meant to fit in the crook of your arm, you remember to look at them before anyone else. Your palm fits around their thighs.
It was only after two and a half years post nursing that my breasts didn’t ache whenever a baby cried. It didn’t have to be my own.
I thought I’d spent twenty minutes at Jennifer’s house, but when I finally let go of the baby I realized it had been an hour. A full hour of simply melting and staring into tiny eyes. A full hour of suckling, jiggling, burping and relaxing. A perfect hour.
As I left the house, and hurried to pick my own two up from school it was impossible to not be lost in reverie. Jane was such an easy baby, and Alexander was too, once we got him healthy. This was the first time I’d looked at a friend’s infant, and not longed for one of my one. I love my children in ways I’d never realized I could love. I have a boy and girl, and they are extremely different relationships. It’s possible that the relationships are different because mothers and sons have a different bond than mothers and daughters. It’s also entirely possible that my relationships are different with each of my kids, because they are so very different from one another.
I’ll never know why the relationships are different. They just are, and that’s good enough for me.