Baby Bubble Wrap

I know some of you probably miss the good old’ rat poop and Charlie chasing fauna days of this blog.  My oh my have we changed.  That’s life so it seems, and seemingly it seems so.  Soon enough we’ll be back at the Stuckey Farm in Monteverde, and I promise you there will be more poop to blog about.  Inshallah, it won’t be rat poop, but rather, poop from my sweet baby boy. Oh baby blue, how I love you.

Speaking of poop, why not?  A few minutes ago my dad shouts down:

“Hey, Santiago shat his pajamas!”

Kate then goes, quite the flustered excitement, “Ooh, can we get pictures???”

“Sure…why?”

“Oh, cause I think the Holders and my dad will appreciate it” she says.  You do the math.

But I’ve gone astray. This post is not about poop.  It’s about bubble wrap.  Birth from a bubble and bubble wrap with baby.  For years I’d always noticed and admired the halo that surrounds a person holding a baby.  There they are, with a nice rhythmic bounce, baby bounded by bond.  There they are and they don’t hide.  There they melt into the background with a lead role.  Not a worry in sight, cause they hold them tight.  They squeeze to comfort, and pat to soothe, and they baby responds in miracles and Pythagorean theorems. 

What liberation from roles as acquired with a new role.  Notice the tension—dialectic, to be pedantic—between the freedom and constraints that come from new parameters.  Attention to baby results in voiding of other social contracts (don’t fear Rousseau, there’s no void, no vacuum).  This is sort of like what I’ve recently referred to as a very large “Fuck it” list in conversation with Edgar Amador.  There’s the baby, and all other things can be jotted on that list, to be dealt with…later.

Normally you don’t hum and dance slowly in the waiting room of a doctor, or while waiting for some iced coffee.  But baby comes and you can dance and sing, and be jolly and merry and to hell (or to the list) with everyone who won’t smile back.  You are in a baby bubble.  You are wrapped and it gives you power, scent of a purple flower.  You don’t even feel embarrassed by rhyming so much, right on cliché cue. 

Baby wrapping.  Wrapped by mommy and fed by her.  Greatest comfort in the world, it comforts me too.  Look at those eyes as they stare into hers.  They travel, I move.  I’ve been to the future and I’ve seen cousins and fire flies, and naps, and balls and trees. Feedback loops got my back backed up to the sky till there’s no why worth left pondering in a moment’s breath.  

And a sentence that can go on and not worry about getting anywhere is about as good a place to rest.