At the time this photo was taken, the baby had grown only about 13 weeks inside momma Julie. Thus, the details are in short supply here. No happy cousins lining up with ice cream for someone’s birthday. No naked baby on the bear rug. In fact (sorry, guys) I thought it looked a lot like a T-rex running toward the left side of the screen, with the remains of a dead fish in his mouth. If you squint just a little, you can see it. This was going to be quite the grandchild. A hungry T-rex.
Fast forward a few weeks and we have the official bums in the window sighting of the grandbaby’s business end. Here is it:
This baby is a GIRL. Not that I can see it any clearer on this particular shot. Here it looks to me like twins…a fox kissing a koala bear. Fraternal, I guess. My son and his lovely wife, however, assure me there is one human female infant gestating within Julie’s lady parts.
Now I love girls, I really do. I was one, once. I had short brown hair, I wore dresses that were frequently torn, dirty and sporting shorts underneath so I could swing unconcerned on the monkey bars. I loved to shoot and fish with my dad. And when I was a grown woman, with a family of boys to raise, I thought there was probably a reason God had given us those boys. Around little girls, I’m useful like a snow shovel in Palm Springs. I can’t ring their little ringlets. I can’t fluff their little bows. Long ago, I put little Abby Vining’s hair in pigtails for church one morning when we were babysitting for the weekend, and she looked like she could pick up ham radio transmissions.
And our grandbaby is…(gulp)…a little girl.
So Jerry and I have come up with a new entrepreneurial idea. We’ll call it “Coaching for the Other Team.” It will match grandparents who have a lifetime of experience raising one sex, with soon-to-be grandparents who are about to find themselves feeling like headhunters in Vienna or ballroom dance teachers in a rugby game. The mentoring opportunities are vast, not to mention practical applications.
“There are how many creases from which poop must be wiped from her bottom?”
“What exactly makes him do that yellow fountain thing when I take his diaper off?”
When I first mentioned this idea to Jerry, it cemented my awareness that such a niche exists. “Oh,” he said, “You mean like “Hello Miss Kitty”?
“Hello Kitty,” even I know, is the genre. Miss Kitty was Marshall Dillon’s secret squeeze, ran a saloon, and was probably a bad girl.
Oh, well, even a good girl can enjoy a cold beer once in a while.
Welcome to the world, Aubrey Rose. We will absolutely do our best by little you. Pink bicycles, pink baseball gloves, pink kites, whatever you want. It doesn’t matter if you’re riding a pink pumpkin pulled by magic mice or a rumbling pink motorcycle, you are enormously, hugely, wildly, unreservedly, loved.
“Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.” Matthew 19:14