Wrangler Dani

Editorial note – I was home-schooled. Not for fourth grade or because the Christian preschool was full that year, but the real deal. K-12. So that might help you to understand this story.

When I was in Jr High, I subscribed to a magazine called Hope Chest. It was published by a couple of entrepreneurial home-schooled girls somewhere far away (the Dakotas? I think?) Either way, I had outgrown American Girl and was starting to dream Authoress dreams, so this little self-published ditty scratched the itch for a while. Most of the girls who contributed were stereotypical, head-covered, homeschooler-types, the oldest of 15 kids who signed their letters “In the name of Jesus, Holy and Anointed” or something like that. And while I couldn’t identify with some of it, it was appropriate for me at the time, I guess, and there was only one thing in the magazine that I recall being completely befuddled by.

I knew girls who wore skirts and head-coverings, knew people who didn’t have TVs, who made their own clothes or didn’t particularly like the outdoors. That I could handle with a shrug and a smile, as I went on my heathen way. What I could not, ever, understand, was the intensity of the baby-lovin’ amongst my peers. These girls would unabashedly write letters to the magazine about caring for the latest addition to the brood, waxing poetic about their love for babies and their desperate desire to get married and have several adorable little infants of their own. I was mystified.

Why do these girls love babies? Why rush to have one? I liked playing roller hockey with the boys and getting dirty and pretending to be a commando with my brother. I loved animals and would have cuddled almost anything fuzzy into submission, but a baby? That was a bit much for me.

I’ve thought of those girls and their baby-lovin’ a few times since, and as I’ve grown up I’ve still kept my distance from the little guys. Cute, sure, but they also poop and cry and I am kind of in the dark as to what on earth to do with them, especially before they can talk or smile or say “Can I have some more?”

But today I might have gotten a tiny taste of something that might turn me into a tender Baby Lover yet. I went over to Brent and Kim‘s this morning, to say hello and bring by my secret recipe banana-nut muffins. After Kim and I talked for a bit, one-month-old Baby Asher woke up and needed a change. After he was happily dry and clean and smiling at us from his blankie on the floor, I offered to watch him for a minute so Kim could take a shower.

He and I were fine for several minutes, he looking around the room and me marveling at his fingers and toes and belly-button and just how tiny and perfect and HUMAN he looked. I couldn’t help but start to goo-goo-gah-gah at him, he was just so cute. But all that cuteness started to dissolve quite rapidly… and I was very unprepared. I looked everywhere for his pacifier and finally found it, trying to give it to him as he screeched unhappily at me, this inept girl who I’m sure he knew had never quite caught Baby Fever and had no clue what to do.

Finally, I picked him up and found myself cooing. COOING. I don’t think I’ve ever cooed before, but I knew it when I heard it. He started getting sleepy, nestled his little head into my shoulder as I found myself bouncing gently. I looked in the mirror, and miracle! He was happily sleepy, little naked chest against my sweatshirt and tiny, perfect legs sticking out of his diaper, curled up against me. He was fine for the next few minutes until Kim was ready to feed him, and I think I fell into a tiny bit of Baby Love.

I guess I finally get it. Kinda.