The baby boy sank into the pillow, nuzzled between my side and the crook of my arm. His belly raised infinitesimally, breath as soft as a butterfly’s landing. I turned a page of my book and looked down at him again—his eyelids fluttered at the slight shift, but he didn’t wake. He felt safe cradled against me, warmed by the rhythmic motion of my breath, deeper and longer than his own.
He wasn’t mine, but holding him like that nudged a mothery feeling in me, one that surprises me sometimes when I babysit. Maybe years from now, I’ll read by lamp-light, my arm numb from my sleeping infant’s weight. But now, the idea seems foreign, far off, and unreal. I wouldn’t exactly describe myself as “a baby person”. Sure, babies are cute, but I more often notice how they cry and scream, pull your hair and try to rip out your earrings. I don’t goo-goo gah-gah at every baby in sight, or say things like, “oh I just can’t wait to have one of my own!” I can definitely wait.
I don’t usually pass time by imagining motherhood, but, in those unexpected moments when a baby sleeps soundly against me, I feel like, someday, I could be a mom, and I could be a good one. I would hope to be, at least. I don’t really ever know what to do with that feeling. It’s still foreign, far off, and unreal, but it’s also sweet and oddly innate. It freaks me out and leaves me cozy and distant-future hopeful all at the same time.
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