Coming of Age

It used to be a fun to sit a baby on my lap and watch my reaction. It's an old, time-honored trick. You find the single guy in the room and then plop an infant into his arms and watch him deal with it. I always had the suspicion that parents were filling their children with volatile chemicals, shaking them, and then offering them up just before the baby did a Regan MacNeil all down our collective fronts.
The big spit was never a problem for me. Most of what came out resembled what had gone in only recently anyway, so it wasn't as horrifying as watching grownups "sneeze food." Regurgitation was a matter of fact and I came to expect it as a matter of course. The thing that I had a hard time with was the crying.
I consider myself a leading authority on what kids find amusing. When I can't get an infant to giggle and coo, I take it as a personal affront. I work very hard at my peek-a-boo and mouth noises. If they grab my glasses or pinch my nose, I know I'm getting through. When they arch their backs and make that sound that only dogs can hear, you know that you're doing something right.
Eighteen years ago, I had a close encounter with the baby that would become my niece. She laid in my lap and I imagined that she could make sense of the colorful swirls in front of her. Her fingers opened and closed around mine. This no special project or pleasant diversion. This was my flesh and blood, my kin. This was the moment that prepared me, years later, for the birth of my own son. Happy birthday.