Rock a bye Baby

Is there anything better than a wee one nestled in your arms, snuggled down and drinking a bottle of nutrition in a vivid shade of white?  Peach fuzz over drooping eyelids topping a full belly - so peaceful, so innocent, so blessed!  A little burp complete with a bit of a tip for the server - also in white liquid form.  The stuff of a perfect day - or 30 minutes minimum.

The other night I babysat for grandboys three - another one of those perfect day (or when Momma and Daddy return - whichever comes first).  Elijah at six months gave me some of those perfect minutes of baby snuggling, albeit with 2 and 3 year old brothers vying for attention the whole time.  It is possible to cuddle and discuss Thomas the train and referee pillow sharing all at the same time.  It helps, of course, when you are cuddling a number three child.  He has never really understood undivided attention so doesn't miss it or demand its implementation.

So after Elijah, now safe from the threat of an up-close vision of Thomas, opted for a visit from the sandman, my odds improved.  Never one to leave dead air wanting, Aidan was engaging me in an active but one-sided conversation about Legos.  Josiah, almost two, was topping off his own nighttime reserves and nearing the end of the contents, which makes for more difficult wandering owing to the angle of the bottle.  Being a little shy on the Grandma cuddling scale, I picked him up and rocked him, kissing toddler curls for good measure.  As he finished his bottle, older brother Aidan ran to get his sippy cup and announced that he, too, wanted to be rocked like a baby.  Does my heart good - though my back wasn't as sure.

Just a couple of weeks earlier, I had been dining in a fast food establishment with Tyler (4) and Bryce.  As luck would have it, "House of the Rising Sun" was playing in the background as Tyler, meal complete, sat on my lap.  It's not quite Rock-a-bye-baby, but it will do, so I rocked a momentarily non-squirmy little boy as I sang about a house in New Orleans.  We were both smiling, though I didn't get a good look at the guests at the next table.  My apologies to them...  The song ended and squirmy returned as anticipated.

Unexpectedly, though, a certain nine-year-old brother had a request, "Rock me, Granma.  Sing to me."  So there, in Culvers, my original grandboy sat on my lap, my arms wrapped around him, as neighboring guests heard me sing about that Southern house at sun rise.  The background music was not keeping time or key or wording with me.  But Bryce and I swayed and smiled and went back to our roots, sans bottle.

There is nothing better than a grandboy nestled in my arms.  No matter how old that grandboy gets, he's still my baby.  And so far, he still knows it.  Love and cuddles to all my grandboys!