Say Uncle

I spent the weekend in Chicago for my best childhood friend’s wedding, and as the maid of honor (not matron, thank you), I had a bride to attend to most of the days and all of the evenings. My dear younger brother drove in with his girlfriend (now my very good friend), from Cleveland to watch Cass in Chicago, while we prepared for and celebrated the big event. Perhaps I was predisposed to being emotional (weddings and childhood friendships will do that to you), but this struck me as a particularly poignant act of kindness. I broke out in chills thinking about the little boy I used to hoist up into the lazy boy like my own little rag doll, now all grown up, rocking my own baby boy to a quiet sleep, head resting against his uncle's shoulder while Colin sings the Irish lullaby of my Dad’s fathering days, the one we fell asleep to together more nights than I can recall.

But the night before leaving, my mom-stincts kicked in, and I did what I do best, always very badly. I worried. I worried about whether Colin would know what to do if Cass cried when Colin changed his diaper or if he wouldn’t eat or that Colin wouldn’t cut the pieces of cantaloupe small enough, and Cass might choke on one. And maybe Colin wouldn’t react quickly enough, dipping him upside down, so that the slippery piece of cantaloupe could come back out the way it went in. I worried that Cass would miss me, and Colin wouldn’t be able to calm him down. I worried that Colin would get frustrated or nervous, or that Cass might get nervous or frustrated. I didn’t try to worry. I didn’t sit around, dreaming up the most unlikely scenarios that could unfold, but they played across a filmstrip in my head anyway, like a movie I couldn’t pause. So I typed out a way-too-long email about Cass’ eating schedule, sleep routine and play preferences in way too much detail. And I felt better.

It took only a few seconds of seeing Colin and Kelly with my son to render my worry-fueled instructions utterly ridiculous. Cass reached for Kelly immediately, and laughed his funny little chuckle in Colin’s face. He smiled and ran around, tickled by their doting. They took him on evening strolls, spoiled him with wooden maracas and a monchichi toy, and held him tightly on the balcony so he could wave to all the cars, people and bikes that went by. When we finally came home Saturday night, finding Colin and Kelly sacked out asleep on the couch, they reminded me of Ryan and I, exhausted after a full day of taking care of Cass. Peaceful. They said they had a glorious time, and glowed even, prattling on about all his adorable mannerisms, funny moments, how much soup he ate for dinner and how they tamed his diaper-changing refusals (answer: TV). I couldn’t have been happier.

This morning, I found a file saved on my computer, left on my desktop by Colin and Kelly. Maybe they worked on it after Cass went to sleep, charmed by his tired eyes and sweet, sleepy disposition. The photo was one I took a month earlier, one morning in his pajamas. Around the border, they wrote this:

Cass is the most beautiful and smartest baby in the world. He loves his mommy. He loves his daddy. He can’t wait to grow up and love humanity. He will be legendary. Cass loves all of his grandparents. He loves toys. He has style. He loves sunshine and squirrels. He likes avocados. He loves to giggle. He has compassion.

There are only a few people in the world who love your children almost as much as you do. Profoundly. To those people you are eternally bonded—in a way that surpasses even the deep sibling bond of a shared childhood. A relationship you thought could not possibly be stronger. It made me realize I could not wait to have another baby, even when I’m worried and stressed and busier than I’ve ever been, because Cass deserves to have a brother or sister, who will one day grow up to make him as happy as Colin makes me.