progeny. part ii.

Last Christmas I attended a small holiday party at which about ninety percent of the other guests were there with their young children, about five of which were under a year old. Needless to say, I divided my time at the party between chasing sticky-fingered drooling toddlers away from my purse and shoes, and staring vapidly into my wine while trying to tune out the conversations about diaper rash, breast feeding, teething, and God only knows what else. All things considered, the party was about as pleasurable as I’d imagine being poked in the eye with a lemon zester is.

As the evening progressed, one young mother apparently tired of being manacled to her young offspring and was looking for somewhere to plant it while she tackled the buffet. Looking around the room, her eyes lit up as she spied my empty lap: as it was the only place in the room not occupied by a little doughy ball of flesh stuffed into a festive sweater, its real estate value had soared to Trump Tower heights.

This ill-advised woman somehow decided that it was a good idea to leave her young daughter with me, despite my fervent assertions that I had never held a baby before and was not especially interested in this being the first time. Clearly, the lure of the buffet was strong, and she was not taking no for an answer. I suddenly found both my hands in use holding the baby and thus unable to reach my wine, which had been moved to a coffee table, and leaving me with only my flailing feet to shoe the crawling children away from my purse. These annoyances aside, it was an interesting experience to actually hold a baby for the first time. I was particularly struck by how top-heavy the little lady felt. Although, admittedly this particular child’s head did appear somewhat disproportionate to its body, to the point where I wondered if it wasn’t a coincidence that it was the only child at the party in a zip-up holiday sweater, rather than a pull-over.

After about 15 minutes, the child had still not begun to cry or make any attempts to get away from me, and I was quite pleased with myself and was starting to think that I had some sort of God-given gift for mothering which I had been previously unaware of. (I should perhaps mention that the child had been asleep when given to me, so essentially all I had done was not accidentally woken it up). My newfound confidence proved short-lived when the child’s mother returned to reclaim her lapwarmer. She looked at my proud face, her baby still asleep in my care, and cocked her head with an dubious look on her face. “Did I do alright?” I tentatively asked -- my confidence shaken by her bewildered expression. “Well, she looks really awkward, but not visibly in distress” she replied scooping her infant out of my lap.

Confidence shattered, I polished off my Chardonnay and showed myself out. On the way home I stopped by the store to bitterly inquire about the best product for getting baby spittle out of Nine West tweed slingbacks.

To be continued.