Posts
 |
| Toes! |
Well, well, well. I was truly hoping that if I closed my eyes tight and didn't blog during this weird, unexpected time that someday we would be able to gloss over the jaw-dropping weirdness of the months since you were born. We've had the pandemic, of course, and that has divided the world into Maskers and Idiots Non-Maskers. And we've had the presidential election, of course, and that has divided the nation into Red and Blue. We've had the two-day October ice storm that has divided absolutely no one because we can all agree that THIS IS INSANITY.
So, business as usual for 2020.
But over the weekend I was able once again to access the panacea that puts all of the 2020 madness into perspective, the healing balm that is the best medicine for what ails me. What ails me specifically is the ever-present low-grade rumble of fear that alternates with frequent spikes of terror, and the balm to this terror is baby toes.
Last weekend, when your mom and dad needed to focus on someone other than you (I know! How dare they!) I got to spend two days in Baby Nirvana.
Okay, okay, it had only been two weeks since I had seen you. There's currently a self-indulgent, tone-deaf meme circulating that is based on a tweet by a person who's famous for being famous. "After 2 weeks of multiple health screens and asking everyone to quarantine, I surprised my closest inner circle with a trip to a private island where we could pretend things were normal just for a brief moment in time," she wrote.
Well. If that doesn't put into perspective the rift between the haves and have-nots, I don't know what does, but it turns out our family is among the haves and our private island was the House on the Corner. Two weeks ago, properly tested and quarantined, all of your immediate family of loved ones gathered for the first time since last Christmas. So many uncles! So much passing-around-of-the-baby! It was as if the universe had suddenly dropped into proper alignment for the first time in seven months. I spent the weekend nibbling your neck and patty-caking your feet together. And bouncing. Heavenly days, how you love to bounce.
I was still in the happiness hangover from that weekend when, last Friday, I was called to Granny-Nanny once more.
You had changed, just in those two weeks. You are not yet ready to crawl, but your rolling game is stellar and has become a way to get from Point A to Point B. You still like to be held on my lap in a position that gives you an upside-down view of the world, but now you very nearly have the six-pack abs to pull back up into a sitting position. And you are more and more able to communicate exactly what you want: It makes me laugh when you're done with sitting on the floor, thank you very much, and stiffen your arms and growl.
Perhaps my next-to-favorite moment is when we tussle over who should eat those delectable baby toes. I nibble on them and you laugh, then you grab them back and stuff them into your own mouth.
You have the reputation of being a terrible napper, though, so the very best time is when you've fallen asleep as I hold you and I know that there's no reason I need to put you in the crib. Then, with my iPad playing The Great British Baking Show on mute beside us, we rock and snooze and I know I'm living my very best life.
This dreadful year has nearly ruined my faith in a large swath of my fellow human beings, and we still have a couple months to go before we can tear that page off the calendar and burn it ceremonially. But if the Pandora's Box that has been 2020 has included pandemic, politics, and pandemonium as its defining features, it's also included you.
Baby toes always win.
Much love,
Grandma QueenBee
