A friend of mine is expecting her first baby to be delivered in days ahead. A baby boy. For the past few weeks she’s been so radiant and standing tall in my sense. I often glanced at her belly and wondered when I would experience the milestone and what would I feel by then.
We often talk of kids (obviously, since we deal with kids 6 days in a week), of how we’d like to raise them, which country seems promising for the plan, how we’d prepare them for any options life might offer them, and observe rich moms leafing through brochures to decide which school and courses good for their 3-year-old kids while they have the whole times in the world to teach them themselves. I wonder if by the time we hold the conversation we have the same graphic projections, for she’s surely be a mother, while I’m still waiting for my boyfriend to come around dealing with my raving.
In two months I’ll see her smiling, holding her baby boy, and sniffing on his strangely addictive fragrance. I’ll convincingly ask her to let me hold her baby to feel his warmth in my arms and see if I’m quite prospective for the responsibility (yes, I know that can’t really tell. Holding someone else’s baby for five minutes won’t tell if I’ll be a good mom or not). Probably I’ll cry, touched. Probably I’ll go home contemplating.
I haven’t been the most thoughtful friend to remind her to take her vitamins regularly, to drink lots of water, to eat right, to check up, to not going out buying her lunch unaccompanied, to stop bending over to pick dropped pens or sheets of paper or even just to make her think of happy thoughts. Not that I don’t care, but because I’m just not good at it, and that I know she’s doing well. Despite that, I’m happy for her, curious, wondering, quietly watching, keeping tracks…
I want to buy a pair of baby socks.