My daughter Alisa was born on August 5, 1980. She was what anyone would call, “a good baby.” Rarely cried. I’d nurse her in her sunshine-gold nursery, sway with her in the bentwood rocker, place her lovingly in her brass crib, and she’d fall asleep. I knew, even as a new mom, that the warmth of body-to-body, the cuddling, maybe even my off-key singing of the lullaby passed down from my grandmother, through my mother, would soother her. As the oldest of 7 siblings and 28 cousins, I had heard this lullaby often. “Oh, the pretty baby, oh the pretty baby.” I didn’t have the vocabulary of neuroscience and healthy bonding then. I called it human connection. Love. Touch.
Christmas, 1980. The cars, vans and trucks of aunts, uncles, siblings, cousins and grandparents rolled onto my parent’s expansive driveway. Motors revved then quieted. Young children hopped out, slammed car doors behind them and raced each other on the blacktop. The tarred surface looked more like a full parking lot than a dwelling entrance. The huge family gathered inside. More than twenty people. Mom in the kitchen rustled around the stove, men in the den watching televised NBA games.
My brother Mark’s five children ran around in circles; kitchen, dining room, living room, hall, kitchen, dining room, living room, hall, kitchen, dining room, living room, hall. After the meat pie lunch, 4-month-old Alisa rubbed her eyes, which started to close. I cradled her as I walked into the living room between the noisy kitchen and the boisterous den. I sat in a straight-back upholstered chair and nursed. Then I whispered “oh the pretty baby” as I swayed around the room, walking, rocking. I could feel her muscles starting to soften, so I placed her for her usual post-lunch nap in a tiny crib tucked away in the only quiet corner I could find.
She cried.
My mother, now cutting yule log in the kitchen, yelled to me, “let her cry. She’ll settle down.”
She didn’t settle. More crying.
I stood above Alisa and reached down to pat her back. Even gently stroking her back up and down, side to side, didn’t help. My mom shouted again, “You’ll spoil her.”
My mind thought she must have known what she was talking about, having raised 7 of us. But my body tensed, gut tightened. I wondered, do I leave my unhappy child or go to my mom now unhappy with me? My heart pulled in two directions. Not understanding why, I overrode maternal instinct and joined Mom, my cousins, my grandmothers, my sisters and sisters-in-law, now preparing and serving coffee.
After a few minutes, I noticed silence from Alisa’s crib. I tiptoed to her and saw her two-year-old cousin Adam silently gazing at her through the white wooden slats, his cherubic face exactly at her eye level, mattress-level. He frowned, wrinkles on his forehead, as if to match her sadness. One of his chubby hands held one of her tiny ones. His other hand offered her his favorite toy, a brown stuffed fuzzy, furry bunny. He squeezed it through the slats and placed it next to her tears. She smiled and gazed at him, then closed her eyes to sleep. They were both, then, so quiet.
Later that day, the makeshift parking lot outside was empty. But not our hearts. Two-year-old Adam had taught us all about the value of simple human connection, love, touch, empathy and generosity.
A question for you, the reader: Are there memories of connection that surprised you or came from unexpected people? I’d love to hear at sly313@aol.com
Lovely, lovely.