Holding the baby

In which our Hero’s smile sets up as he realizes he was set up

I was smiling to myself as I recalled my baby nephew cackling in my arms. For someone so utterly determined not to sleep, he was remarkably good natured, and was willing to smile at anything. The clock, the baby in the mirror, his fingers. The bare wall. Anything.

He was in my arms because I’d been talking to his mom, Ice, at a family shindig, and she paused, looked at me, and then handed the baby to me with a grin. Which, as I thought about it, was kind of funny since I was the one not running around trying to steal him from whoever was carrying him. I laughed, remembering her smile. And then I realized this wasn’t the first time.

Actually, as I thought about it, there was a pattern to this, going back years. She’s kind of pause for a beat, as if studying me, and then her smile would widen, and she’d hand me the baby-of-the-moment. All three of her kids. Several of our mutual cousins. I smiled some more, thinking it was sweet of her to make sure I got a little baby time. Though always with that smile, with the glint of amusement.

It made me remember a conversation from years ago, before she was married, maybe over one of the Bobs, as she wondered if there was truth to the family belief that I didn’t like babies, or I was uncomfortable with them. I’ve always been baffled at that one because I was almost always the first one to hear and soothe whoever it was when they woke up. On the other hand, I guess I’m not the first one to grab them from mom or dad. I’m more inclined to let them explore and play when they’re feeling adventurous and let them come back to me when they want comfort or a playmate, so I don’t seem typical relative to the rest of the family.

I’m sure I made my position clear to her when she asked. But that was long ago, and she doesn’t see me with little kids as much. And now there are more cousins to fight over the babies, so I don’t really get as much baby time as I used to. So it’d be quite likely and entirely reasonable that she’s forgotten that I’m at ease with babies.

Unfortunately, that means that the sparkle in her eyes as she hands me her son is mischief. She’s being evil, at me, and using a 6-month-old to do it. I’d be upset if he wasn’t so damn cute. If she wasn’t, either.

She makes me think about the attention she gives me, the affection she has always shown me, even when I’m not much good myself. It makes me notice that she loves me, as opposed to just knowing it.

I feel very fortunate in that. Even if she’s up to no good.