Holding the Baby

I am not a confident cuddler of babies. I watch some of those hospital reality shows and maternity ward documentaries with perplexed fascination, transfixed by people who march in and pick up nappy-clad small persons without a moment of hesitation. Whenever I meet friends who have recently become parents, there's always an awkward moment when they ask "Do you want to hold him/her?" And I invariably say no. I'm clumsy. I trip up, spill drinks, drop books, plates, vegetables and all sorts of other inanimate objects. I don't trust myself with ten pounds of wriggling, dribbling human being.

To be honest it goes deeper than that. I don't feel terribly comfortable holding other people's offspring because I feel like I'm being judged - by them and by society. It feels like a million eyes are on me and everyone is asking if I'm holding the baby in the right way and if it seems happy in my company. Is the baby drooling on me and how am I reacting to said drool? In short, am I maternal enough? Am I worthy of my status as a woman because I can demonstrate a basic understanding of the proto-mothering process? Frankly I think, and I assume that everyone else thinks, that I'm a bit of a failure when it comes to dealing with kids, however broody I might feel on occasions. So I try and avoid potential baby interaction situations. The future husband has, however, just acquired a new nephew, and in my position as future wife I suppose he's my nephew too. Thus with aunthood comes a new set of responsibilities.

So it came to pass that in a pub somewhere in North London a somewhat grumpy six week old ended up in my arms. We chatted for a bit. He seemed to like it when I talked to him. It held his attention and he grunted occasionally in reply. It was possibly the most intelligent conversation I'd had in days. Desperate to keep him occupied and stop him grizzling, I sang him a song. Apparently babies like being sung to, even if it's out of tune, so for tone-deaf me he was the ideal audience. He'd been a bit upset during lunch but now he was quiet and not crying, which I accepted as a small but welcome victory for me in my own personal "Help! I'm holding a baby!" war. Truth be told I was actually feeling pretty contented. Then, in the midst of all the constant baby-gurning, the fleeting expressions of "Where's my mum?" of "Have I got wind?" and "Shall I have a wee?" that crossed his face in rapid succession throughout our time together, he fixed me with his dark eyes, looked directly at me and smiled. Amongst the scattered fragments of babyness, the confusion of infanthood, I'm convinced that he did something purposeful and really quite wonderful. Who cares what the big people think - one small person judged me favourably and I rather liked it. I managed not to drop him on his head, too, so it was a good result all round.