“brrrrrr brrrrr brrrrr!” I smile coyly at the other library patrons before explaining to no one in particular, “He likes doing this new thing with his mouth….” Otherwise, I worry that people will assume the rude whoopee-cushion noises are coming from Jude’s other, highly gaseous end.
Aside from noises, Jude has “discovered” his feet. Often, I’ll be holding him as he struggles to face downwards, enraptured by the very existence of his swinging appendages, marveling, “My loyal friends! You follow me to the ends of the Earth and back!” In the mornings, when I retrieve Jude from his pack ‘n play, he’s on his back like, foot and sometimes feet in mouth. Literally.
Since learning he has complete control of his hands and fingers, Jude enjoys latching onto objects, particularly my hair, with a superman grip before shrieking like a deranged scientist. After the rooster cry, he quiets and suctions to my chin, nose or forehead. It’s endearing in a scary sort of way, especially when he refuses to release my tuff of hair.
At Jude’s five month milestone, the family room is a Scooby-playpen filled with fun bouncy machines, the cosmic strawberry playmat, his vibrating chair and an exersaucer that reminds me of a spaceship switchboard. All of his new toys are due to the convenience of craigslist, where I barter and buy toys just months old then sell them back. I honestly don’t know what people did before such an invention and I doubt Jude would have much of anything since I can’t justify dropping hundreds of dollars on a new toy that will last him just a few months.
Lately, I’ve been debating whether to look for a full-time job again, or even a part-time occupation. The extra cash would be helpful and it would give me a bit of time to myself, and yet I don’t want to miss anything concerning Jude as he’s changing so quickly.
At the read-aloud on Thursday mornings at the library, the room is filled with light-skinned children, all accompanied by a nannies straight out of a United Colors of Benneton advertisement. I hear many of them beckoning the kids back to their seats in syrupy Jamaican accents when they toddle off.
After read-aloud last week, I struck up a conversation with a girl my age named Ana from Venezuela. Five days a week Ana nannies for a two-year-old girl with strawberry blond hair pulled back by barrettes, wearing a complimentary Lily Pultzer red jumper. Ana admired Jude then asked how many days I nanny.
“He’s actually my son,” I reply.
“Oh! He’s eyes are so blue!” She says, bending over for a closer look as Jude’s eyes peer out from under his octopus hat.
Yes, he looks nothing like me with shiny emerald eyes and light hair. Whoever said dark eyes and hair were dominant?
We continue talking, me asking about Venezuela and in the midst of conversation, Ana proclaims, “I think it much better you stay home with Jues. Mad-son don’t even know her mommy is her mommy. She think I am her mommy!”
It takes me a second to realize she’s talking about Jude and no longer about her father’s liquor business back home.
“I first one to see Mad-son walking and now she talking to me. She know Spanish and her mommy only see her Saturday and Sunday and sometime Mommy and Daddy busy on Saturday so I stay for six days!”
“Peoples around here, they crazy. They got so much money, but no time with they kids. They kids grown up by other people!”
I nod, thinking of all the youngsters and their nannies I encounter on my walks, women from South America, the islands, Europe and even Asia, hired to care for other people’s kids. These are not children placed in daycare by necessity. These are the offspring of the .001% of Americans who can afford full-time help, designer clothes for babies and vacation homes overlooking the Sound.
After the conversation, I reflect on my anxiety concerning a career and decide that a few more months at home would probably be best for Jude. Certainly, as I’ve heard before, nobody will love your baby the way you do.
Happy five months, Pumpkin!