One less leaf

leaf

The baby laughed like a maniac who had just gotten away with robbing a bank or draining the dolphin tank at the zoo.  I eyed the boy suspiciously as he continued to giggle with an open mouth. 

“What is in your mouth?” I asked in alarm as the tip of a piece of foreign matter peeked out amidst the laugher of its host.

Two tiny teeth stood guard, rice sized soldiers protecting whatever he had tucked away in his cheek.

I wrangled the squirming baby and his mouth clamped shut with the determination of a Rottweiler’s teeth into a piece of meat.  He knew that he was found out but he wasn’t giving in without a fight.  

“Open up,” I demanded with the baby under one arm and a finger in his mouth.   

He shook his head in refusal and smiled with eyes that sparkled with mischief.

“Yes, you will,” I argued with the naughty boy.

I fished left and right until I felt something solid, pinched it between two fingers and extracted an entire leaf.

I laughed in disbelief, but I wanted to cry.  What if he had found something more malign than an old leaf, like a nail or a dead spider?  I promised him I would do better and be more vigilant against the dangers of the world.

Graciously, he forgave me and crawled off babbling his favorite word, “Dada.”

Advertisements

Negotiations with a baby

cartI refer to the list in my hand, peanut butter is underlined twice, as though it could be forgotten.  Everything is accounted for on the list except for pickles which are located at the opposite end of the store.  I hesitate and consider the need vs. want of the pickles when the baby squawks from his perch breaking my train of thought.  Dimpled legs and barefoot feet kick at me, while a black safety belt holds his round belly in place.

“Ok, ok,” I say and start pushing the cart and its little captain again.  He is happiest when he is in motion and the squawk was a warning.  I don’t want any trouble from the tiny tyrant.  The last time I heard that particular noise it was to a little girl who crawled with a threatening quickness towards us at a coffee shop.  He spotted her and squawked which stopped and terrified her back towards the legs of her mother.  Mission accomplished.

The baby world is strange, they communicate with a series of grunts, shrieks and squeals, kisses and slobbers, pinches and pats.  They are the most primitive version of us, totally dependent and yet independent in wanting what they want when they want it.  And he wants to go.

“Let’s check out and then we can go home and play,” I negotiate.

He seems to accept the offer as he stares up at the bright lights overhead with a half-smile.  I wheel past the self-checkout lanes and towards the only one manned by an actual person.  Self-checkout would be great for a single person with a bundle of bananas and a box of lightbulbs, not so great for the two of us and a week’s worth of groceries.  

An old man with white hair, faded jeans and shiny penny-loafers gets in line behind us looking weirdly unburdened with only a pack of batteries in one hand.  Meanwhile, the baby sets his attention on opening the sliding cooler door with bottles of soda and water beside the checkout lane, twisting his body to use both arms to reach it.  I hold him down with one arm and load a bag of salad, lunch meat and baby food onto the moving belt.  The cart is still overwhelmingly full to unload with one hand.

From behind me, the old man begins to speak.  In my mind, I imagine his gentlemanly offer to help with the unloading.  Chivalry is not dead.  I chuckle at my geriatric knight and step aside to allow him to put his offer to good use. 

In reality he says, “You’re awful small to have such a big baby,” peering over my shoulder and tapping his shoe like he has to be somewhere very important in the next two minutes.

I do not respond with a witty comeback about him being awful old to be so creepy and rude.  Although I cringe at the thought of confrontation with a stranger, I am not afraid of it.  On this day, however, I am simply too exhausted from keeping the baby happy and healthy, the house clean, groceries in the fridge and on and on to dish it back.   

“Why don’t you and your batteries go in front of us?” I omit that he is an oblivious, useless man.

And, of course, he accepts my offer.

Beautifying the land

flowersWe move to a barren plot of earth where the grass is brown and sun-scorched.  Ancient trees with white and green lichens growing on the bark and dead limbs poised to break free and crash to the ground line the borders.  There are no flowers or bushes aside from a gathering of white and yellow wildflowers at the edge of the tree line.  Tough weeds that like shallow soil and dry conditions are the only thing that grow in abundance.  A thick layer of limestone is just under the soil, daring us to bring life to the impossible area.

The earth says no and my shovel agrees at the initial dig when I hit rock here, there and everywhere. Yet, we do not listen.  Instead, we get a pick-axe and bring in compost and top soil, plants and grasses. Busting through the rock and clay as beads of sweat drip from our foreheads and run down our necks, we refuse to accept the current state of our land.

Meanwhile, the baby creeps out from under his umbrella, off of his blanket and onto the crunchy grass after an orange butterfly.  

“Ahem,” the baby’s father clears his throat, stopping the baby in mid-crawl with the invisible power of a hypnotist.  

Orange wings flutter off towards the trees and the temporary spell is broken.  The baby resumes his escape attempt and is scooped up by his ever-observant daddy and only to be returned to the blanket.  His face is covered in dirt, turned to mud from the fountain of drool that drips from his mouth.  He smiles and laughs with his hands up in the air, conducting a silent orchestra with his chubby fingers.

He is a beautiful mess.

It is all for this muddy buddy that we accept the dare to bring life where there has only been rock and weeds.  It is for him that we see beyond the harsh present to create a lush future.  It is for him that we sweat and toil.  

We beautify the land for him and for those who follow, it is no longer about us. 

Blog Stats

  • 7,414 hits