India Rose is nearly four weeks old. She comes to trapeze class with mum and dad, and all the bags and baskets needed to keep her happy. Dad sets about teaching, mum meets the new students and looks after baby, but India Rose is fractious and hungry. I am asked to hold her while mum opens the dairy. It’s been a long while since I’ve held such a small child, and I take her from her mother’s arms nervously. Her delicate little body feels incongruous in my arms but I remember how to hold her and the grizzling child soon quietens, only to start crying again when I hand her back to mum.She won’t settle, and during the course of the class, I am asked to hold her twice more. Each time, the child quickly settles. ‘She likes you.’ says her dad.
‘Ah,’ I reply, ‘I’ve got the touch – babies and dogs love me.’
‘Babies and dogs,’ he laughs, ‘But not cats?’
‘Oh yes, cats, too.’
India Rose stares at me intently. She seems to like my white bunny earrings, and a smile hovers around her tiny pink lips. As I hand her over, she stirs and her mother makes some remark about the baby hating her and always crying when she holds her. ‘No,’ I say, ‘You are the fount of all food and love. You are the centre of her universe and she loves you best.’ Our eyes meet. There is gratitude in hers, and the hope that what I say is true.
5 comments:
I've known of your other site, of course. But while I've certainly appreciated the fine writing and ribald fun of the other place, I find myself more mesmerized here.
These are great pieces, in every way.
Yes, I agree with mercurious. These vignettes are truly enjoyable.
As to India Rose, her name reminds me of Gone with The Wind, the name of Ashley's pious and judgmental sister.
And, how kind of you to ease the mother's insecurities about her baby.
My own neice, while a few months old, began to cry everytime I held her-screaming even-but nothing it was-and the love between her and I became deep and gratifying.
Beautiful.
And I am sure your words came as a moment of grace for mum.
August
...and then they turn into teen-agers.
Yes, like Mercurious, mesmerized here. You describe a sacramental moment (though I don't deny my tawdry side saying: offer the kid your breast!). Such a scintillating encounter. Thee maternal? What next? Loverly.
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