The Most Important Job

Sometimes you're at work, and it's your busiest day, and you need to focus, stay productive, get things done, and yet you can't stop thinking about your baby. What he might be doing. Whether he's smiling or sleeping or reading a book. Is he laughing or eating? Crying or crawling? You don't know, and you want to know. You don't want to know. You want to know. You want to call home. You don't want to call home. Because if he's crying, what can you do? Could you offer the magic bit of advice? Or would it make the rest of your day impossible? If he's laughing and happy would it help you refocus on work, or make you desparate to get home?

So finally you call. And he's fine. Not just fine, he's wonderful. He's laughing and playing and napping and eating better than he did for you yesterday. You thank your lucky stars that you have the most easy-going baby in the entire universe and wonder how he got that way because you know it isn't genetic. You settle back into your chair, go back to your computer, and swallow that little lump in your throat that always swells up when everything is going so well for your baby.

Later, you manage to leave work early enough to get home to feed your baby dinner. But then the bus is late. And crowded. And slow. Your next bus is even later, fuller, and slower. You get home after dinner, which your baby has decided not to eat anyway. He is on the changing table when you walk in, and he waves to you, a "Yo, whas up" kind of wave. You quickly run a baby wipe through your fingers to clean off all of the bus germs from your hands so you can pick him up and love him up, but all he wants is for you to sit down and hold him. So you do.

He sits in your right arm. Then he sits in your left arm. He wiggles around, and you know what's going on. You rushed home to play with him, but you see those eyelids drooping. Now he turns around in your lap to face you, and leans in, belly against belly, his little head on your chest. His arms fall down to his sides, and his little fingers curl open slightly, he takes a deep breath and his sweet little chin hangs open just a little bit. His little head gets sweaty and his hair is wet where his head rests against your arms. You keep the chair rocking back and forth, back and forth, and he settles in for sleep.

It's an hour and a half before bedtime, but he skipped his afternoon nap today, and now you think maybe he was just waiting for you, which makes that lump in your throat reappear. You missed dinner. You missed playtime. But now he's laying his little head against your chest and that's the best feeling in the world.