Oh, no, no, no! I don’t mean having a baby, as in giving birth to one; I mean having one in our home.
Fisher, our six-month-old grandson, is with us for about a week. And, yes, I had forgotten the joys of having a baby around.
The joy came back quickly with his first soggy, heavy, warm diaper. Oh, did it ever! This particular diaper change gave new meaning to the color known as “Army green.” I don’t think I’ll ever view my daughter’s Army uniform the same way again. I believe there were also shades of “spoiled asparagus green.”
I don’t think this is what environmentalists mean when they speak of “going green,” although that’s exactly what Fisher has done. Our house will never smell the same.
And then there are those joyful feedings in the high chair. About half of the food drips from his mouth and down his chin onto the bib. That’s when he chooses to wipe his fist across his mouth, then on his head. Fisher’s almost-bald head is a motley assortment of colors by the end of a feeding and, perhaps, by the end of the day, depending on how many baths he gets.
As I lean in with his spoon to give him more food, he usually grabs my hair. Apparently, this has become a favorite game of his. So, by the end of his feedings, my various shades of blonde and gray are intermingled with “carrot orange” and “garden vegetable green.” Ah, such an inexpensive form of hair coloring.
When Fisher looks up with his big blue eyes and his even more humongous grin, when he snuggles with his head on my shoulder, when he stretches his arms and reaches for me – these are the joys that warm the heart and bring the delight that overshadows all the messy diapers and feedings in the world.
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