Donald came to the rescue and crawled up next to my feet as she spoke, a concerned look on his chubby face as if he were on an important mission. My mom swung her chair around so that her back was fully to her computer and leaned forward to beckon Donald. "And how did my little man do today? Was he a good boy?"
I started to answer, but then saw that she'd been speaking to the nine-month-old baby. It became clear that this would be a meeting with an extensive agenda: My mom and Donald would need to go over what he had for lunch, whether he was da cutest widdle man in the entire world. and possibly review what the kitty-cat says. "Would it be okay if I went into our room for a while?" I asked. "I should probably get back to unpacking."
My mom picked up Donald and propped him on her lap so that he was facing her. He giggled and tried to take her glasses, and she responded by initiating a game where she would lean in so that her glasses were just within reach of his outstretched hand, then she'd pull back and Donald would explode in guttural giggles. I tried again to ask if it would be okay for the baby to hang out with my mom, but it was clear that even my questions were an interruption to this convocation of their mutual admiration society.
(Jennifer Fulwiler, Something other than God)
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