The baby was a little bit fussy. He squirmed about in his mother’s lap, across the aisle of the bus from me, and it seemed that he was nearing the inconsolable stage. He was probably 3 or 4 months old (but then again: I’m pretty bad at guessing baby’s ages), and he had tan skin, and big brown eyes. He wore a navy blue onesie, and his white diaper bulged out the sides. His legs were more like yummy drumsticks than human appendages. His mother, a plump Hispanic woman with thick black hair, soothed him or tried to, stroking his fat little face, and murmuring something to him in Spanish. To no avail. He writhed about. At one point, we made eye contact across the aisle, he and I. His eyes, huge and deeply set, struck me with their humanness. He was having a hard time right then, he was dealing with a bodily function of some kind, who knows which one, and he was letting his mother know he needed help. I gave him an encouraging smile. This seemed to strike him still, he got that I was communicating with him, and he went very silent and calm, staring at me. His eyes were serious. Who is this person smiling at me … does it mean something? Can she help me? When it became apparent that my smile had nothing to do with HELPING HIM, he went back to writhing about, his small tan feet curling and uncurling themselves in mortal baby agony. The mother, still cradling him in her lap, reached down for her bag, which was placed on the floor of the bus, awkwardly out of her reach. She strained, reaching further, digging her hand deeper. The baby’s mood was reaching critical mass. He was about to start screaming. I could see the threat of it in his eyes. Then she finally brought out a bottle of what looked like apple juice, and got him into feeding position. Already the bottle was 5 minutes too late, so in the one second it took to get him into position, he began to weep as though he were from a Greek tragedy. Why, mamma, why is it taking … so … long …<\/i> … And just before the tragedy could reach its peak, the bottle went in his mouth. Then came the transformation. You could feel it not just in his body language but in his entire essence. He relaxed. He lay back in his mother’s lap, and sucked away. Blissfully. He had his drumsticks up in the air, and I could see that he was still flexing his feet, but now it was a languid gesture, the gesture of a happy pasha, of contentment. Ahhhh, yum yum, I’ve got me some juice, and I love to flex my toes …<\/p>\n
I watched this entire thing from across the bus, sometimes peripherally, and sometimes blatantly – and when he relaxed, suddenly I felt from out of nowhere a huge lump clog up my throat. I thought of the mothers outside the Superdome, clutching their limp hot babies, babies wearing filthy diapers that the mothers have scraped clean so that they can use them again, dehydrated babies, babies who need water, juice, anything … and the mothers, being mothers, know this … and yet there is no water, there is no juice. The stench of the air is atrocious, there is a corpse lying 2 feet away, and no amount of soothing or clucking or stroking will turn the baby into a contented pasha, flexing his toes just because he can and because it feels good.<\/p>\n
The simple gesture: of a mother reaching down into her bag to get a bottle … the simple gesture: of a mother being able to take care of her baby’s needs when he says to her, in body language: “Mamma, I have a need…” …<\/p>\n
suddenly seemed like a miracle, a freakin’ miracle, and it pierced my heart in two.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
The baby was a little bit fussy. He squirmed about in his mother’s lap, across the aisle of the bus from me, and it seemed that he was nearing the inconsolable stage. He was probably 3 or 4 months old … Continue reading