Why Can't Words Say It All?

Lily and Jason came out yesterday with Owen to pick up some grass seed and a few other things and after Jason had gotten everything loaded up, we all sat out back for a few moments. Owen ate some, of course, and then he just hung out on his mama's lap, enjoying being outside. As do most babies, Owen likes to get out and go to different places. He likes to look at light and sky and the way the trees move in the breeze.

He's still at that googly baby stage where everything takes so much concentration to control- eyes, head, hands. But I can tell that every day he is getting better at this thing we call life.



He opens his eyes wide when I talk to him, he seems to like my baby-babbling. Of course I speak in that high-pitched voice which a few years ago some parents disdained using because, well, I don't know. They probably thought that if they didn't use it, their babies would start talking earlier or be smarter or something. It's no accident that we talk to babies in this ridiculous manner- they like it, they pay attention to it, it's part of the process. They know we are talking to them.

It's part of our nature to do this. To adore our babies, to want to hold them, stroke them, nurture and care for them. To keep them warm and comfortable and fed. I think it's funny sometimes that one of the very things we hold up as most sacred and holy- the madonna and her love for her child- is to be found in so many animals, not just human ones.

I think I learned as much about mothering from Jane Goodall's reports and stories about the chimp Flo as from any mothering book concerning humans. Protect the baby, keep her close, feed her when she's hungry, sleep with her. As she gets older, watch her as she explores, let her try new things, teach her how to hunt for termites. When it's time, send her out into the world to live her own life, stay friends, keep her in the tribe. As long as you are able, keep an eye out for her and her own young's safety, help when you can.
And so forth.

Really. That's how simple it is. Of course we humans have so much more to worry about than marauding males from other tribes. To vaccinate or not to vaccinate? TV or no TV? Go back to work or live in poverty? This car seat or that one? Solid foods? When? and on and on, our ape-brains having to deal with modern human circumstances and so we go to the internet for answers, and yet, we can still call our mothers for answers. She may go to the internet too, but usually she can say, "Oh, you did the same thing when you were a baby. It's normal."

And so the new mother learns and the grandmother learns too.

When I was taking pictures of Owen yesterday I thought about how, if it were acceptable, I would probably still be obsessively taking pictures of my children, even though they are adults. They walk into a room and my heart still leaps up with such love for them. What very few people tell you is that when you have a baby you fall in love. Romantically with roses and pink hearts and goo-goo eyes and gushy words that come from your mouth and like with a new lover, you want to kiss them all day long.

And guess what? This doesn't go away.

I would aim my camera at Hank and May and Jessie and Lily every moment I was with them if that wasn't so ridiculous because I am still so in love with them.

My child, my child, my child my heart beats. My heart can still barely hold the glory of them, that glory it knew first when I held them first, cradling their still-wet bodies to my chest. And when I see Owen, it brings it all back to me and as I witness the love his parents have for him, I am hurtled back in time to when my babies were that small, that young, and they needed me every minute and I was so gob-struck, god-struck in love that every thing they did made me melt in wonder, in awe and the need to protect them was so fierce that I could have died.

None of that goes away. When there's a storm, I want all my babies around me. I know this isn't logical but what of a parent's love is? I still want to protect them, even as I know I can't. But I look at Owen and I know why I feel this way.

I took this picture and it was, quite obviously, posed for.

And then, right after I took it, I clicked another.


Jason and Lily were already curled back around their baby. Look at the way they look at that baby. Look at the way they are adoring him.

I still look at all my babies like that. And there is part of me which wishes I could still hold them all in my lap, gather them all into my arms. I can't nurse them any more but I want to give them soup to take home, eggs, bread, whatever I have in my cabinets, my refrigerator. "Take it- eat it- let me nourish you." I want to have them here when they are sick or hurt to take care of. I want to protect them from winds and rain and from hurt and disappointment and frustration and all the things that humans have to go through and I can't and it literally hurts me that I can't.

It's so amazing how being a grandmother brings all of this back to the forefront. Like I said in another post, it just adds another layer of love to it all. When I am loving Owen, I am loving his mother, his aunts, his uncle. I am loving his grandfather. I am loving our tribe and in some ways, I am feeling fiercer than I have ever felt in my life.

It all feels right. It all feels like what I was put here on earth to do. And Owen is the ten-pound essence of it all and no wonder I need to touch him, hold him, sing to him, smell him, kiss him as often as I can. He sums up the love-drug of motherhood in his tiny arms, his perfect body, his round, sweet head.

"I'm your grandmama," I tell him when I hold him. "And I love you."
I tell him that over and over again. I sing it to him in silly rhymes. I whisper it into his ear. I kiss it onto his face. I breathe it into his heart where he will know it forever.
He lets me do that because he has no choice.

And I wonder if my children know how much I still want to sing words of love to them. How much I want to stroke them, kiss them, take their pictures.

I doubt it. But I'm telling them today, clumsily, because as we get older, the ways we can show our babies we love them becomes more complicated.
But it doesn't become any less, that love. It doesn't become any less fierce.
Take my word for this.

This is my high-pitched crooning. This is my deep soul loving. This is my holding you in my arms. This is my message to you. You are always my babies. Can I take your picture? Can I kiss your head? Can I hold you close? Can I let you go?

I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.

And I love you. Always.

Mama