“I am not a baby person.”
Those words have come out of my mouth more times than I can count over the past six years, and really my whole life. I truly never, ever understood why someone would WANT to come over and hold my baby for me. I thought people were just being nice when they asked if they could.
It took me six years and three babies to finally experience the true joy of babyhood. I think some mamas are blessed with this gift from the beginning of motherhood, but I was not one of those mamas. I loved my babies, don’t get me wrong. I fed and changed and snuggled and played. But toddlerhood has always been more my jam.
Newborns make choppy motions. They make weird noises. They cry for no reason. They can’t tell you what they want. Their love language is physical touch, and mine is…not. The old me believed that some people were just baby people and some people were not. And I was not.
But the jailbroken, tear-up-every-time-I-see-a-newborn me officially wants to hold every baby I see. I am an absolute blubbering mess every. single. time. a mama comes across my Newsfeed with a minutes-old baby on her chest. I want to hold a tiny, sleeping or screaming or choppy-motion-making, weird-noising baby so bad it hurts. For as long as they will let me, and as long as their mamas need.
Maybe it’s because I know almost certainly (Lord-willing because we all know birth control is not my strong suit) that I am done having babies. Maybe it’s Peyton’s relatively calm demeanor and ridiculously chunky thighs. Maybe it’s the six and three year olds’ daily reminders that the stays-in-one-place, can’t-talk-back phase was actually a beautiful, beautiful thing.
Whatever it is that has brought on this sudden baby craze, I am grateful. I feel like I finally understand a part of the world it felt like every other woman knew existed. And even if next week I’m back to my not-a-baby-person ways, now I can truly understand.