The first time I held her, she was just a baby. I'd ignored her for so long (after repeatedly being instructed by her sister that I was not allowed to babysit Iris, I'd decided it was best to pretend she didn't exist, especially since it was a painful reminder of what they had) that it took some time for me to realize that she was different.
Those first few times I held her, in the dark with that question lingering in the air, it wasn't a proper introduction to her. I didn't expect her to be exactly like her sister, no two babies are alike, but I didn't expect her to be so different. The details of her emerged somewhat slowly, as we learned each other, it seemed every detail was a staggering opposite of what her sister had been. Even more surprising, she was just four months old.
The first thing I noticed was that her eyes were already sharp. They swept across the room, they seized on curiosities, they were aware. Round and brown, her eyes, when opened gave off the alarmed look of surprise. To be surprised, one must already know and be expecting something else.
To hold her was to be held by her. Her sister had been an uncooperative child from the start, unwilling to link her limbs around my waist, unable to hold on, carrying her required an extra effort. Iris' body was strong and solid and she moved quite a lot for a baby that young. She had no problems clutching things with her hands, in fact I often had to pry out of her stubborn fingers items she plucked from bookshelves as we passed by them from one room to another.
I don't remember exactly when I realized she was not only delighted in me but actually knew who I was, but it was pretty early on, maybe a month, especially because I spent five days a week, five hours a day with her. I found her to be a charming, cheerful child. She obscured the dreariness of that house and that whole situation (her father was almost always absent from the house in those days but the sting of what would never be still throbbed painfully). She was a beautiful baby and she had a wonderful demeanor. She knew how to communicate with me through noises and her eyes, I could usually figure out what she wanted easily. I marveled at her. She required no work, she was not difficult, we spent our days in a calm relaxed state unless her sister or her mother were around.
Neither of them liked how easy and delightful the rapport between us was. The sister was mad because she didn't want to share me. The mother was mad because she actually loved her, she was finally a mother, she didn't rush off to be away from her, she enjoyed being a mother to her. After a month, I could see why, she was a wonderful baby.
Babysitting had been part of my life for years, there were so many children I'd known, some that I cared for, a few that I loved, but never before had I felt a child loving me in return. It was a joy and a pleasure. It is hard to describe the kind of adoration I had for her, and felt from her. Her joy lit up the room. She was a bonfire and she crackled with aliveness. A radiance, a glory, I feel like loving her and being loved by her is what it must be like to be a mother, to have children.
It was so simple I cannot even recall a scenario. I remember glimpses, the tickling of her feet, the smell of her hair, the way her eye lashes looked when her eyes were closed.
He was right, we did look natural together. As I spent more time with her, I grew more fond of her and the feeling was mutual, sometimes to the great grief of her mother. It was bad enough I had brought her first one into life, that she needed me for that and I also had the frozen sister's easy adoration, and navigated the somewhat complex and peculiar man that was her husband with seeming ease (in fact, he often terrified me, I was so afraid he would topple me somehow, but he was too kind for that; also, I suspect the game of knowing each other was too much fun), but to steal away the affections of her beloved baby, who had brought back so much joy into her life (she was still different, better, but the old resentment was creeping back in, I wonder if this is when they fought over me the most, because she began to grow bitter and mean toward me), well eventually it became too much.
As much as I understood her anger and expected it, I couldn't resist the joyful ease of her daughter, who I nicknamed the squish (because she squished my ovaries, I joked and because she was squeezable, and so adorably squeezable) and I was enamored. Sometimes I feel like I poured myself again into loving his daughter because I couldn't love him, but then I consider that I often showed up to visit her on my days off and how she would cry and fuss until she was in my arms and then she would nestle her head into the crook of my neck.
Once, I listened with my heart in my throat for her breathing on the monitor during a nap, and when it seemed too shallow, too soft, I quietly peered in on her, she had been sleeping fine, but it was nearly time for her nap to be over, so she awoke when the light fell across her crib, and with not even a blink, her grin for me was instant and she reached for me. I had never been so afraid to lose a child, never been so concerned (how strange it felt to have the concern of a anxious new mother and not the practiced sense of near impunity I had with all other children who had proven themselves unbreakable), but she was different.
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