are two cans of formula, six bottles. On top of the burp cloths there are the long sleeve sleepers that snap all the way up. Way too warm for August in the south so I dig until I find short sleeve onesie shirts. Some pants. The tiniest socks I’ve seen in my life. There are pacifiers inside a plastic bag with the note loves when he fusses. Consider the he in question is still squeaking and sucking on his fist, I tear open the bag and hand him a pacifier, guiding it to his mouth. He latches on immediately and sucks to his heart’s content. While he’s happy, I grab his car seat and lower him down into it and keep it on the floor at my feet. It gives me two hands to use so I can easily empty the rest of the bag. I find wipes and diapers, but he’ll need more. So many more diapers than the dozen she provides with a note of brand and size and weight limits.
Which makes me wonder how big the little guy is. I haven’t even seen his body. He’s been so snuggled in the blanket and since he’s happy, now is probably a good time to check him out. I pick him back up and grab a small travel pack of wipes and a diaper and take him to the couch. I unwrap the blanket from his body and grin at his chubby legs that kick and flail as soon as I lay him down on the blanket.
“Hey there,” I croon, holding onto his chest with one hand so I can prepare everything else. “You’re a kicker, huh? Will you be a runner when you get older? Maybe a soccer player? Hmm?”
I smile down at the little baby with blue eyes so dark I’m sure they’ll change to a different hue. I imagine him growing up, a spitting image of Mikah possibly, but that’s ridiculous.
He could end up looking like his mother for all I know. It’s not like I’ll be around to see him grow up.
Goodness.
“I’m going kind of nutty, Angelo.” I’m rewarded with a gummy smile that peeks out from the edges of the pacifier. I tickle his tummy and then his chest. He squirms, wiggling beneath my hand and pulling his legs up.
“There you go,” I say, tickling him more. He’s so itty-bitty which makes sense if he was born in July. It’s late August, so at most he can only be seven, maybe eight weeks old.
I make quick work of the diaper change, saving the fun of that job for Mikah for later. He’s wearing lightweight pants and socks, so I tug both off and unsnap his plain white onesie, pushing it up to his tummy.
“You’re so cute,” I whisper. I have the sudden urge to kiss his tummy, inhale his sweet baby scent and I barely restrain myself and finish up the diaper change.
Once he’s re-dressed, I lift him back into my arms and relax into the couch, lifting him so his face is again on my shoulder and I run my hand up and down his back. He’s so small, my hand is almost the same size as his back but mostly I love the tiny size of his bottom.
There’s something about babies I’ve always loved and adored. They’re so sweet, just needing love and food and sleep and even though some are difficult, this little guy in my arms seems to be a very relaxed and happy baby.
He burps again as I hold him and lifts his head.
I smile down at him and I’m struck by the beauty in his eyes and wrinkled face with cheeks barely starting to fill out, but man… is he cute.
“Hey there.” I run my finger along his hairline and his baby fuzz eyebrows. He wiggles and I support his neck with my hand. “Are you happy? I hope you’re easy and sleep really well. Sounds like your daddy might not know what to do but I promise, I’ll help in any way I can.”
Not sure how that’s possible considering I have school and work and research, but this little guy is tugging at my heart in a foreign way.
Maybe because I found him. It’s the caretaker in me. I need to know people around me are happy and healthy and my friends constantly tease me that if anyone gets sick, I turn into mom mode and run them chicken noodle soup or have it delivered. I wash