So, let’s be honest. My Saturday nights are usually spent on my couch catching up on whatever’s on my Tivo. Lame? Maybe. But that’s what you do when you’re thirty-seven and single and you work a lot and most of your friends are coupled-up and going to dinner with their spouses or other couple-types or staying home with the kids. And, lately, it’s the only relaxing time of my entire week, and more and more I kind of love it.
But this Saturday night I broke with tradition and hung out with my married-with-baby friends, B and K. And I mean baby. B'n'K’s little Bundle of Cute is four weeks old. Itty bitty. The most adorable little pumpkin! Ooogie ooogie ooogie!
Sorry. Baby fit. It’s over now. Nothing to see here.
B'n'K let me into their evening routine for the good, the bad, and the ugly… and I gotta say it was mostly good. Very little bad and no ugly. From my vast five hours of observational research, Life With Baby pretty much looks like this: lots o’ breastfeeding, some burping, a few good naps, a little whininess, a walk around the park, a warm bath using Daddy’s special spa-drizzling technique, a dash of swaddling, a hint of crying, some Mommy Magic, and a good night’s sleep.
This is, perhaps, an idealized version of events. After I left, it’s entirely possible that Bundle of Cute cried his lungs out all night long, but I don’t think so. Because, my friend K is MAGIC. She has this… this… what to call it? Skill? Genius? Here’s the thing:
SHE KNOWS THE SECRET LANGUAGE OF BABIES.
Bundle of Cute would make a sound, and she’d go, “Oh, he’s hungry,” and he’d be hungry. And then he’d make another sound, and she’d go, “Oh, he pooped.” And he’d pooped. And when he made a little sound that sounded to me like just a sound, she said “Oh, did you spit up?” and sure enough, he’d spit up, but in his mouth. There was no visible spit up, but she knows the language. And then, when he slept for the whole walk around the park, she knew… oh, she knew… that he wasn’t just going to fall asleep when fall asleep time came. And… you know what’s coming… when he didn’t just fall asleep when fall asleep time came, she knew that if she started the whole process over again— breastfeeding to George Winston, diaper change, special swaddle—that Bundle of Cute would, miraculously, sleep.
It kinda freaked me out. ‘Cause I don’t speak that language. And what if it’s harder to learn than, say, French? I spent twelve straight years studying that, and I still couldn’t tell you if a French baby pooped.
So my question is this: Do all moms speak this language? Does it just appear in your brain, like when you were little and you suddenly knew that letters are sounds and putting them together makes words that mean things?
Or is my friend K really… magic?