Bathing Our New Grandbaby

I keep telling myself that I’m an old hand at this

I have never been skittish about caring for a child.

Nursing, feeding, burping, changing a diaper have always been easy and I have looked forward to each as a special opportunity to interact with the new baby.

My daughter asks me if I’d like to give our newest granddaughter a bath at the end of the day. I hesitate.

For some reason, I freeze up when it comes to bathing a newborn.

Maybe it is because newborns are developing core strength and it is my responsibility to hold this bundle as I wash her. Maybe it is because the silky warm water and sweet smelling Johnson and Johnson baby soap make her slick and slippery and I worry that she will slide through my hands. Or maybe it is because I am afraid that as I wash her hair, I will get soap in her tiny eyes and hurt her.

Maybe it is all of the above.

I remember my mother’s ability to handle both of our now grown kids, confidently and deftly. I take a breath and tell myself this apprehension is silly and I can do this. Certainly, I can do this.

Fortunately, the large farmhouse sink in my daughter’s home can hold the baby tub so it is easier to handle our newest granddaughter and I needn’t bend over.

The baby tub has a baby seat which keeps her upright and supported. Why then is it getting to me like this? I have done this a million times over. Why can’t I remember what to do?

My daughter stands next to me and calmly walks me through it step by step. She is the mama now.

My granddaughter’s big blue eyes look up at me, trusting completely. The warm water comforts her and it is easy to see her body relax as I spread a warm wash cloth over her belly. She bats her long eyelashes and looks up expectantly. She coos and I melt.

Each little part of her is a miracle.

Tiny hands with the tiniest of fingers. Rolls of wrinkles on her thighs, on her arms and under her neck, the nursing baby’s prowess. Her legs stretch out and up, kicking freely.

My mind is free of all else. Time seems to stop as we look at each other, generations apart, sharing in this moment. I am as immersed as she is and enjoying every split second.

I am bursting with love.

Before I know it, her mother lifts her and wraps her, burrito style, in her hooded bath towel. We kiss her good night.

As my daughter carries her upstairs to the crib, I am left empty armed, recalling the warmth I held a moment ago.

It is the same feeling I had after I showered my mother when she could no longer bathe herself.

Initially, I would freeze up. And Mom would walk me through the process.

Her directions were simple and clear, easy to follow. I focused on them, addressing one area of her body at a time. She made it easy for me.

I knew she was dependent on me for safety and I was intentional with any movement, keeping the pace slow and steady.

I prayed that in some small way I could comfort her body that was wracked with pain.

What little could I do to make this moment matter?

Somehow we do our best. Even when we are skittish and unsure. Even when we know it is likely not enough, we persist and enter into the unknown.

The safety bars, and shower chair and ridged bath mat remain even though she is gone.

And, I hope that I did enough. I hope that it was good enough to matter in the complicated scheme of things.

We are given moments. Split seconds, ephemeral in nature.

We choose whether or not we will step into them before they disappear, or stand aside and miss the opportunity completely.

Love works like that.

Like an infant’s sink bath at the end of the day. Done. In the blink of an eye.