goo, goo, ga, ga

In last week's episode of Bones, Dr. Temperance Brennan, a very intellectual, practical woman, picks up a crying baby and starts swinging her around in her arms. "You like spatial disorientation, don't you?" she asks. Dr. Brennan, true to her character, doesn't seem to fall into the baby-talk category. Yeah, well, that's not true for me, a wanna-be English professor turned mommy.

I now talk baby talk. And for some reason, it comes up in this unnaturally high voice. And although I do throw in several full sentences, and nice questions like, "How was your nap? Did you have good dreams?", I find myself making Bridget's noises back to her too. Or trying to. Amazing how hard that little girl is to imitate.

Not only do I speak baby, but I make all kinds of faces and make up my own lyrics to songs. (Maybe I should amend that: it's speaking mommy, not baby. I hear this is a common phenomenon among moms.) The one exception that I have to speaking baby, er, mommy, is one thing I did pick up from Bones: wiggling my fingers in her face and saying, "Phalanges!" (It's in a season two episode, I believe--"The Baby in the Bough" or tree or whatever--and is repeated in last week's episode.) But even more amazing to me is that I do all of these things in public without a thought as to what other people think. Bye, bye self-consciousness, hello longing to see that big, amazing smile and the dimple in Bridget's left cheek.

I've also come up with a million, gazillion nicknames for Bridget--so many that she may not know her own name for a long, long time. Al called her "Pumpkin" for quite a while, but I haven't heard that from him lately; now he's trying out "B" (my sister will like that, since that's what she calls herself sometimes). Mommy's not quite as sophisticated. Besides calling her Bridget, I call her Bridge, Bridgie, Sweetie, Cutie, Cutie Patootie, Cutie Pie, Pooper, Pooper Scooper (although I suppose that would actually be me, not her), Beautiful, Pretty Girl, Big Girl, Little Girl, etc. All of the endearing names, all of the adjectives that can describe a baby, and all of the rhymes I can think of. At this point, she doesn't really care what I call her. If she's not overtired or hungry, she'll smile and do her little gurgle laugh (which sounds more and more like she's trying to imitate me when I do a fake, "ha ha ha" before I laugh for real--I'm sure I'm just imagining that, though) when I talk to her as long as I'm smiling and saying it in a fun tone. It doesn't really matter what I say!

As I take time to love holding my daughter, staring into her face and feeling like the happiest, most blessed person in the world when she smiles because I'm talking to her, so many emotions swirl through me: love is most prominent. A bit of protectiveness, not wanting anyone to ever hurt her: those bullies on the playground that will call her "Carrot Top" (that one hurt my feelings til my mom told me to tell them "Thank You" next time they did it--they never did it again after that), boys that she'll like who may not like her back (how could anyone not fall in love with this little girl the moment they see her? I can't imagine it any other way), men that may not have her best interests at heart. And a bit of sorrow--sorry in losing my mom.

I thought that losing my own mom would get easier over time, but it hurts more and more each day as I think of what I'd like to share with her and of how she's missing her granddaughter's life or even got to know that she'd have a second (and now a third, with Lily) granddaughter. As I think of how she must have been with me when I was born (although almost ten years younger than I am now, so I imagine her and dad more like Rachel and Ryan with Ella). Mom loved kids and wanted grandchildren so much. She had a roomful of children's books and toys just waiting for them and now she can't share them with the grandkids. She was a nanny and volunteered in the nursery at church, and always gave away big boxes of children's books when someone invited her to a baby shower. Yesterday, as I sat down and read Bridget's first book to her, I found myself wishing mom had picked out at least one book for my child and given it to me. Which one would she love? Which one would she pick for a baby Bridget's age? How would she go about reading it--would she read the words, or make up her own words or just point things out?

This post took a turn I didn't expect, but one thing I'll say is that I appreciate my mom more and more now that I'm one. I wish she was still here so I could tell her. I miss you, mom.