The Joy a Baby Brings

They entered the restaurant together, three women, one carrying a baby girl in a car seat, four generations dressed to the nines: a great grandmother, a grandmother, a mother, and an infant.

Heads turned as the hostess accompanied them to a small round table by a window, not just because it was noon on a Thursday and they were dressed in their Sunday best. And not just because they were laughing and chatting, but because of the way they moved together, as a single unit, like a pull toy on some invisible string. 

The eldest, tall and lean, was dressed in a dark grey coat, soft pink hat, and leather gloves, and was guided along gently by her daughter. The daughter eased her mother out of her coat and pulled back her chair, then walked across the room and hung the coat on a rack. At the table, she made certain her mother was settled before taking a seat herself.

The youngest woman, the mother of the baby, did the same. She placed the infant in her carrier on a chair, removed the plaid blanket that was covering the child, took off the baby’s pink hat, then strapped the carrier to the seat before taking off her own coat and sitting down.

The three grown-ups didn’t rush to pick up their menus, or crane their necks in search of  a server with water, or even to begin a conversation. They were like men watching a football game on TV. They all just stared at the baby. 

She was sleeping the sleep of infants, oblivious to the sounds of glasses clinking, people talking, tables being set and unset — totally unaware of the noise, the bright sun streaming in through the big windows, and the three sets of eyes that brimmed with love and pride and awe and wonder as they memorized every little part of her. The pale baby skin. The soft wisps of hair. The tender lips. The fingers curled tight. Every inch of her so new and innocent.

The women sighed. You couldn't hear it in this room with all the clamor. But you could see it. The settling in. The women relaxing. The mother leaned over and stroked the baby's face. The baby stirred. The grandmother leaned over, too, but only to gaze more closely at the child.

A waiter appeared. He smiled at the women. They smiled back.

"She’s beautiful," he said, and every one of them puffed up like a bird about to sing. "How old is she?"

"Two months," they replied.

"Is she your first?" he said, addressing the youngest. And though the question was asked of just her, all the women nodded. 

Between the salad and the soup, between bites of bread and lulls in the conversation, the women would turn and stare at the child. They were all in awe. The mother and grandmother kept touching her. To smooth a wrinkled dress. To pat down her hair. To pick. To straighten. As if their fingers needed proof that she was real.

The women ate. They laughed. They sipped tea and they talked. The baby slept through it all, unaware of her importance, unaware that she bridged generations; unaware that she was a miracle who negated age and time; unaware that because of her sat three women, one young, one middle-aged, one old, all different but for the moment all the same, bound by their motherhood and this baby who was a part of them all.