Sheer joy is a baby in the house

The Boston Herald

Beverly Beckham

Oh, we have turned into a bunch of goofballs around my house. Look at us, oohing and aahing over a smile, a coo, a tiny fist wrapped around our finger, two arms fluttering like wings.

"Look how cute she is," we say 100 times a day. "Look how cute she is sitting. Look how cute she is sleeping. Look at her cute little lips and her cute little cheeks and her cute little hands and feet and fingers and toes." And on it goes - everything about this baby, exclaimed over and adored.

We are a family in love. Parents. Grandparents. Aunts and uncles. Totally smitten. Head over heels. And when you're head over heels, you act goofy sometimes. You make up words to songs: "Lullaby and goodnight, you're my sweet little Lucy, lullaby and goodnight, you're my swe-eet Lu-cy Rose." You make up stories: "Once upon a time there was the cutest little baby in the whole wide world and she had the cutest little legs and the cutest little belly and her name was Lucy Rose." And you make up reasons why you can't go to a movie or shopping or anywhere out of Lucy range because what possibly could be more fun that watching her?

We watch her the way we used to watch TV. We sit her in her swing and we line up on the couch all eyes on her. She reaches for a toy and we say, "Look at that. Isn't she amazing." She kicks and we say, "Isn't she strong?" She purses her lips and breathes out and makes a raspberry sound and we all laugh out loud.

We move to the kitchen to watch her eat cereal. "Look how she opens her mouth for the spoon. Look how excited she is." We switch to the living room for tummy time and one of us sings "Tummy time, and the livin' is easy," to the tune of "Summertime" from "Porgy and Bess." And another of us sings "It's tummy time, tummy time, tum, tum, tummy time" to the tune of the "Summertime" popular in the '60s. And when Lucy lifts her head and grins at both singers, we call her a diplomat and applaud.

All over the world, people watch the news and get depressed. We watch Lucy and get happy.

It's that way with all babies, isn't it? Or shouldn't it be? Shouldn't everything a baby does be celebrated?

We'll get used to her smiling and kicking and cooing, I suppose. Her newness will wear off and we'll turn on the TV again.

Except that it's not just her newness that rivets us. It's her being here. It's the gift of her.

Many years ago a pair of robins built a nest in the corner of the dining room window in the house where we used to live. I watched from behind the glass. Soon after the nest was finished there were eggs, four of them, small and blue and speckled like malted milk ball Easter eggs. Then one day there were baby birds, scrawny little things with their mouths always open.

I pulled up a chair and sat and stared. Every day I watched those birds grow fatter and fluffier. And every day they became a little more mine. There had been empty space in the window and then there was the nest and then the eggs and now the babies. And I had been witness to every step.

One Saturday morning I woke up and they were gone. I searched for them. I whistled. I called. But they didn't come back.

You whistle. You call. But they leave anyway. Birds fly away. Babies grow into children who grow into adults. They change even as you watch.

We watch not to stop time, but to savor it. And not to possess, but to be possessed of the wonder and joy and happiness a baby brings.