Day 277: Baby talk

I've often wondered if some women are just better suited to motherhood than others. When I was in my early twenties and our friends started having babies I began to think that maybe I was missing some gene essential to being a mother. I would find myself with a group of girls, gathered around a squishy, red-faced, wrinkly little baby and they would all be gurgling at her: "Oooh, what a pretty girl, who's that pretty girl? Boo-boo-boo-boo-BOOP! Ba-ba-ba-ba-BAH!" Then it would be my turn and I would say something along the lines of "Hi. I like your dress."

And then I had my own baby and the art of talking to her still eluded me. I didn't even know what to call her - muffin? sugarpie? I had a vague notion it should involve a food item. I remember my dad calling me mon petit chou tete when I was young, which means my little cabbage head. I settled for a while on pumpkin, but it felt awkward. And what was I supposed to talk about? Here we were, suddenly together every day, all day... we couldn't just exist in silence, surely. She wasn't contributing much in terms of conversation, so it was up to me. In the beginning our talk revolved around survival strategies, the fact that we were stuck with eachother so we'd need to just get used to it and get on with things. But slowly it evolved. I'd talk to her about music, about what was on the TV. I remember one day reading the newspaper to her in a really lively, excited voice. She didn't buy it, but I was still impressed with my own effort on that one.

Now we get along great, because now we know eachother. You hear a lot of wonderful love-at-first-sight stories about the moment you first see your baby, but for me it didn't go quite like that. While I could appreciate the miracle of the whole thing, she really could have been anybody's baby. She seemed like a total stranger, and I suppose she was. But now I see what a cool girl she really is. I've dropped the culinary endearments and instead call her Stinky Monkey. We talk about everything. Well, she babbles and I talk. Sometimes I goo goo ga, sometimes I just tell her I like her dress. We've found our groove, I guess. Looking back, I still really don't know if I'm missing a motherhood gene or not. I'm starting to think maybe it was just hidden.