Crying

It's hard to go off to work in the morning.  And not for the reasons I normally whine about.  I have a whole new set of whines now, and here's one: Hannah gets to spend more time with Elliot.

Based on no actual evidence, I am convinced that Elliot likes Hannah more than me.  And once you have that suspicion in your brain, you notice any bit of evidence that supports it.  Any time Elliot cries in my arms I assume it's my fault.  And anytime he's quiet in Hannah's arms, I assume it's because of her divine gift.

This is an irrational fear, I know.  But those are always the ones that keep us up at night, aren't they?

So tonight he started crying.  And I tried my normal tricks.  I pressed my knees together and swung him left and right on them, I slung him over my shoulder and patted his back, I pressed him against my chest, I changed his diaper.  Nothing worked.

I began to slump into despair.  I knew what was coming:  I would put Elliot in Hannah's arms, and he would be quiet.  I knew it would happen.  The truth, I thought, is that I am a useless parental appendage.  I don't make milk, I can't soothe the baby, there's practically no point to my being here.

He cried louder and louder.  He got red-faced.  His little tongue curved upward in his screaming mouth. There was a despair in his tone, and I believed it.  It seemed to me that he desperately wanted something, but I had no idea what it was.  He cried and cried.  The tone got thready, plaintive.  It went staccato.

Then something changed.  His next cry developed a querulous tone.  His eyes, which had been squeezed tight shut, opened slightly.  His pupils went left and right, looking around to see if anyone was listening.  I had to suppress a laugh.

The cry after that was even more questioning, more tentative.  There was a rise at the end, like a teenager ending a statement as a question.  I found this more hilarious than I can convey in words.  My quivering stomach threatened to roll his little body off onto the couch.

His next two cries seemed to ask whether the world was even paying attention.  They waned steadily in volume and intensity.  The third cry contained a realization: it didn't matter if the world paid attention.   He was pressed firmly against a warm chest and pair of arms.

My stomach muscles, still clenched against my own laughter, relaxed about the same time that Elliot's last cry drifted out: thin, exhausted, resigned.  And there he was, asleep on my chest, just the way I wanted.

In order to achieve this, all I had to do was hold him tightly while he cried.  And not give up when he tried to fight me.

I'm guessing this will be a good lesson for the future.