I couldn't have cared less about babies BC. People would come into the office during their maternity leave to show off their newborn, and the women would line up to coo and fawn over the little aliens and beg to hold them. Not me. I politely would say something like, "Nice baby," and then return to my desk, mystified at the hens falling all over themselves trying to get closer to the tiny being.
Babies were scary, too fragile, and sometimes smelly. I didn't get it. Now I'm baby crazy.
I just cornered a student with his 7-month-old in an infant car seat. I don't even know him. But I baby talked and grilled him with a thousand questions. Is this his first? How old? Does she babble? Does she sleep well? What's her name? He humored the psycho stranger, luckily, but I wouldn't have blamed him if he would have told me to bugger off. Well, yes, I would have. Because I LOVE babies.
Ryan is horribly embarrassed by me when we go to Target or anywhere where there is a chance of baby sightings. I will inevitably glom on to the parents for my interrogation, or at the minimum grab his arm and say, "Look at that tiny itsy bitsy little baby! I want one." I know I'm a nutter. But I seriously can't help myself. I can't even walk into the baby clothes section is there's a chance of seeing newborn sizes. Tears well up in my eyes. I immediately look at Norah and try to remember her being that small. When I can't, the tears start falling.
Maybe it's a passing phase, or temporary insanity. Maybe when Norah is a little older, I won't be baby crazy anymore. I hope so. Sometimes I miss the old apathetic Heather. The one who remained emotionless at the sight of a screaming newborn at the grocery store. The one that didn't have the urge to go grab said screaming newborn, pick her up and hold her and jiggle her until she was properly soothed, then shoot the parent(s) a disapproving glare. The one who didn't hover over babies with the rest of the baby crazy women, desperately waiting to be next-in-line to hold the new baby. The sane one.