You’re no baby till somebody loves you

In which our Hero realizes that kindness does not correlate to personal investment

My family is vast and scattered. For me, it’s confining and uncomfortable obligation that I try to avoid where I can. My father is better at being a statesman and paying respects where it’s obligated. My mother is social, loves people. And me, I’m happiest pretending that I was running a little too late to stop by, so sorry, next time maybe.

The nephew who had the misfortune of hosting my mother during her medical crisis at the start of the year is now visiting with us for a week. I’m antisocial at the best of times, and this is not the best of times so I really don’t want to deal with him. But he’s a nice guy, however odd, and then there is the simple truth that he took care of my mother, which is mighty fine way to get on my good side. Never mind that my mother can be difficult in the playfully uncooperative sort of response you’d get trying to relocate a particularly cheerful mountain.

Of course they arrived late, and their bags went astray (which is going to be fascinating since they landed in a different city in a different country before meeting up with my parents). And since I met them in January, their third child has emerged into the world, and the poor perturbed little one was hungry and mewling in the small hours of the night. I sympathized with her as they tried to settle her to sleep, and assured her parents that the baby wouldn’t disturb me, and went to bed.

The result is going to be a family-heavy few days. We’ve got visitors through the weekend, and a family wedding that I am dreading but don’t want to miss either. Which got me thinking about that circumstance, and how I’ve known the boy getting married for almost 20 years. From there, I couldn’t help but think about the fact that we don’t really cross paths all that much. A few times a year, and that’s that.

Then I thought about when they have kids and how it’d compare to the baby I met last night. Except it’s about the same. I’m entirely comfortable with dealing with the baby, but I don’t particularly feel a drive to dote. I don’t feel the drive to try to be someone in that kid’s life.

Why drag you through that boring sequence of whatever the next thing down from an epiphany is, Gentle Reader? Because I’ve always teased my dad for saying “So what should I be excited about, it’s someone else’s baby. Big deal!” about other people’s kids, and yet when they’re in his space, he engages with them, fully. I always thought he was just joking and actually he really loves babies. But suddenly I realize… he was telling literal truth. These are “someone else’s” babies. It doesn’t change how you treat them, because they are little people who need care and attention more than average but… I watched my father dote on his sibling’s kids, and I know there is a difference that may just be in his experience of them because of feeling connected.

Which is a more scenic road to something I already knew, that some people I know, and some people I like, and some I love, and some… some are mine. By accidents of blood or accidents of fate.

I guess the point is that I learned that a thing about me is something that I actually got from my father. Or the point is that I like watching my dad with the kids that are his because it’s a glimpse at a different angle of my childhood memories.

Or the point is that my glass is empty but there’s more beer in the fridge.

On the way to my beer, the visting family came back from touring with my dad. So I went to be friendly, and since I’d eaten, I scooped up the 6-month-old so her parents could relax and eat. She babbled and played with a ball, once in a while stopping to lean way way way back and look up at me like she was shocked.

Her dad came to talk to her and play with her after he’d eaten, and he asked her if she was enjoying spending time with [title for great-uncle]. She cooed and chuckled, so I think she was good, but I still felt the weight of a title that usually refers to my father.

I still don’t know if it’s something specifically about me, or just that I’m an old bachelor, but once again the parents of a baby tried to mess with me a little by handing me baby food and suggesting I feed her. (If they really think I don’t know what to do, why would they give me the opportunity to help their baby choke?!) Fortunately, it’s not rocket science, and I’ve done this before, long long ago.

On the other hand, after the first spoons which were normal, she’d either duck away or lunge onto the spoon which is really startling. Or she’d whip her head around just as she should be taking a bite. I got most of it in her mouth. A little on her chin. A little on my hand. And then a lot more on my hand when she toothlessly chomped onto my wrist and clamped on.

But I got her (and me) cleaned up and settled, and then as she started to get fussy, I handed my grand-niece back to her mother and went to do my own thing. So she may not be mine the way the Mouse is, but I enjoyed spending time with her, and didn’t feel any great rush to do something else.

And that’s why I’m not a cat person.