Jacob

Jacob came to visit this afternoon, while his parents went to the opening of a hot new pub. Sunday afternoon seemed a strange time to open a pub to me, but maybe that's because I'm in my sixties and they're in their thirties. Anyway, Jordan gave me directions, strict ones, on what I was do to and not do. I asked timidly what happened if I had to leave him to go to the bathroom, and I was told to lock up the cat, make sure Jacob was in the middle of the blanket on the floor, surrounded by toys, and hurry! But the big thing was that she said he would play by himself with toys but that every once in a while I should get down on the floor and play with him. (She doesn't seem to consider that it's hard for me to get back up once I'm on the floor!) I thought about it and realized I had run into a generation gap--or something. I honestly don't remember playing with my children when they were six months old--of course, after Colin, the oldest, there was always a sibling to play with the little ones. I think I thought I was there to love and nurture them, keep them clean, see that they ate and slept--but mostly love them. I didn't think I was there to play with them. Maybe it was that my generation didn't do that, and maybe it was that, as is still true today, I always have too much to do, too many things I want to accomplish--not that the world would collapse if I didn't accomplish them. Or maybe I did play with them and just can't remember it. I called a friend, a few years older even than I am, and asked her. She agreed. She never played with her babies. But I know my daughters and daughters-in-law--and the fathers too when they can--all spend long hours playing with their babies, and Lord knows, those little ones are blossoming.
Jacob and I had a pleasant afternoon--he played, and every once in a while I put down my book and went to sit on his blanket and talk to him. I had been told to give him a bottle at 5 p.m., but he started to fuss at 4:50--tried putting him in the crib and he screamed. So I thought, "Okay, what's ten minutes?" and gave him his bottle. He drank half of it and fell asleep. So I put him in his crib--and he screamed. Long story short, he took a half hour nap in my arms, frowning and snorting if I changed positions. It was a lovely, comforting experience--but I'm sure not keeping him all night. When he woke, he took the other half of the bottle and seemed happy for a few minutes--but then he was clearly unhappy, and I wasn't sure why. When his parents came home, they knew why--I'd missed a dirty diaper. I felt that I failed at babysitting, but Jordan said, "He slept in your arms, didn't he? That's love!" And she's right.
Jacob gave me a 2007 day-by-day calendar about grandmothers. I peeked just now at what it says for tomorrow, and I love it: "The family--that dear octopus from whose tentacles we never quite escape, nor, in our inmost hearts, ever quite wish to."