I Have Met the Baby, and He Is Mine

The baby smacks his lips, and I awake. Crying will come later, if I let it, if I lie under my warm covers and let the baby’s hunger continue its crescendo. I check my phone for the time — 2:14am, not bad, three hours since he last ate, that’s two hours of sleep I can’t complain about. I cantilever myself out of bed, baby Soren long since having taught me that there’s no use dillydallying, and trundle over to his bassinet.

He smacks his lips again, no, I see now, he’s sucking on his thumb. A month ago I would have vaguely condemned thumb-sucking, but here in the trenches I’ve seen the light: anything the baby can do to stop himself from crying, without my help, is a miracle. I’m a convert.

Unswaddle, pick him up, set him on the changing table, and set out my tools: unfold the diaper, scoop some cream onto the spatula, open the heated wet wipes so one wipe is at hand, a mise-en-place to make any chef proud.

I take a breath, open his diaper, and survey the situation. Medium stool, some urine, and, oh no, he has a tiny erection. Cue Mission Impossible theme and start the clock. Grab his feet, remove the diaper, wipe him down, slide in new diaper, apply cream, fold it up and— not fast enough. Mission failure. A glimmering arc of ballistic urine traces a perfect parabola through the air, its payload splattering all over the changing table.

I used to think those fountain statues of angels pissing were the profane output of perverted minds, taking something pure and innocent and condemning it to an eternity of public urination. Now I know that every parent of a baby boy has seen him piss into the air. Those fountain statues merely invite us to partake in this human experience shared since the Fall.

After I’ve cleaned him up, back into the bassinet he goes, just for a moment, while I wash my hands. My bachelor days of playing fast and loose with handwashing are over. My son is born and I am up to 100% handwashing compliance, no exceptions.

Hands dry, I pick him up again. He’s so small and light that I manipulate him effortlessly through time and space, lifting him, rotating him, translating him, setting him down on one knee and supporting his back with the other. I pick up a bottle I’d prepped and left on my nightstand (mise-en-place) and hold it to his lips. He fumbles it for a moment, still working on his embouchure, but then he latches on and begins to suck.

He eats, and it’s boring but relaxing, suck-suck-suck-gulp, suck-suck-suck-gulp. I watch his face. He’s cute. It’s nice to watch him. Not nice enough to justify all this, but nice enough to enjoy for a moment.

As I gaze upon his face, he gazes into the middle distance, sucking diligently. I can’t tell whether he’s concentrating or zoning out. Are other people’s babies like this? I have no idea. I’d never even held a baby before I had one.

Half an hour later, he’s done eating. Burp, re-swaddle, and put him back in the bassinet, then put myself back in bed. I check my phone again. 2:54am. Pretty good. I’ll see him again at 5.