terrypetersen

Nothing is better than simplicity (Walt Whitman, 1855 “Preface to Leaves of Grass”)

As Rebe stuffs a cloth doll under her shirt I know she is Mommy and I am Daughter. Again.

“When’s the baby going to be born, Mommy?”

She changes her mind several times. First the birth will occur on Tuesday, then Saturday, then Sunday. All the while, Mommy shifts baby’s position, not down, but up—as high as chest level.

Somehow I refrain from laughing. After all, I’m either three or five-years-old and couldn’t understand the absurdity of a bumpy-chested pregnancy. Pretend mommy keeps changing her mind about my age. Doesn’t matter. I’m in this game to celebrate my granddaughter’s simplicity for at least a little while. It is a precious invitation.

The birth occurs in a hospital, suddenly, appearing directly from an imaginary car to a bed. Mother drives herself, by the way. And three-or-five-year-old daughter is present for the entire experience. A C-section. Mommy doesn’t know that word, obviously, but she knows the baby needs to appear somehow.

“The doctor has to cut my belly,” Rebe says. “Then he has to put me back together again with a needle. That’s the tricky part.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“She cuddles the doll with genuine maternal instinct.”

“Where’s Daddy?” I ask.

“He’s the doctor.”

“Right.” I nod. “That’s why he couldn’t stay. Because he is so busy.”

“He is also the nurse.”

I bite my lip, and then add, “Really, really busy.”

“He also does the laundry.”

I want to ask if she means the laundry at home or in the hospital, but I can feign a serious face for only so long.

“So is the baby a boy or a girl?”

“A boy.”

“Have you decided what we are going to name my little brother?”

She thinks for a minute, and then says, “PBS Kids.”

Uh, I have a brother named PBS Kids. I am known as Daughter. It’s too bad Dad is so busy as doctor, nurse, and laundry worker. Maybe he would have chosen more conventional names.

Rebe hands me my newborn brother, a cloth doll with eyes that don’t close, dressed in pink frills, and further humiliated by being forced to wear a diaper made of a facial tissue and Scotch tape. Sure I have imagination, plenty of it. But, it isn’t pure like my five-year-old granddaughter’s.

I have a to-do list for the rest of the week that would be too much for the next two months. But, right now, I can forget about all that and spend time with a little girl who won’t be small forever.