I know when the big people are worried because they make the sound. The high, fast sound with their voices going up at the ends like questions even when they’re not asking questions.
They’re making the sound right now. Standing over my sleeping place, the box with the soft sides that they call a “crib”, staring at me like I’m a puzzle they can’t solve.
“Is she breathing?” the one with the warm smell whispers. That’s mama. I know this because she says “I’m your mama” approximately one thousand times per day, like I might forget.
I am very obviously breathing. Listen: in, out, in, out. This is not complicated.
“I think so?” the one with the scratchy face whispers back. That’s dada. He’s taller and his voice is deeper and when he picks me up I go higher than when mama picks me up, which is objectively the best thing ever.
“We just checked three minutes ago,” mama says.
“Three minutes is a long time, Claire.”
“James, she’s literally staring at us.”
I am. Staring is what I do. I’ve been practicing for six whole months and I’m very good at it now. Dada’s face is doing something interesting; his eyebrows are going up and down like caterpillars dancing. I would like to touch them.
He leans closer. His face gets bigger. “Hi, Rory. Are you okay? Too hot? Too cold? Hungry?”
I open my mouth and make the sound I’m best at: “Aaaaaahhhhh.”
This means many things. It means hello and I’m fine and your face is very close and also I pooped a few minutes ago but I’m not going to tell you exactly when because watching you figure it out is entertaining.
Dada’s eyes go wide. He looks at mama. “What does that mean?”
“How should I know?”
“You’re her mother!”
“That doesn’t come with a translation guide, James!”
I laugh. I can’t help it. They’re so worried all the time about things that aren’t even problems. It’s hilarious.
Mama’s whole face changes when I laugh. It goes soft and melty like ice cream in the sun. “Oh my god, she thinks we’re funny.”
“We are funny,” dada says. “We’re a disaster. We haven’t slept in six months. We’re running on coffee and panic. We’re hilarious.”
Mama makes a sound that’s half laugh, half something else. “Remember when we thought the parenting class would prepare us?”
“Remember when we had free time?”
“What’s free time?”
They do the thing where they laugh but also look like they might cry. The big people are very confusing.
The sun is coming up now, making the room less dark. This is when the day starts, apparently. The big people don’t seem happy about this, but I am. I’ve been awake for an hour already, just lying here thinking about my feet and how they’re attached to me and how wild that is.
Mama picks me up and I can smell her, she smells like the warm thing and the soap thing and something underneath that’s just her. I like it.
“Good morning, monster,” she says, which is my other name. I accept this name because it’s accurate.
She carries me to the place where I get changed. The table that’s up high. I don’t love this part because it’s cold, but I tolerate it because mama makes funny faces while she does it and also because what choice do I have? I can’t exactly change my own diaper. I don’t have the motor skills yet.
“How did you get sweet potato in your armpit?” mama asks, wiping me with the wet cloth. “I swear I bathed you last night.”
I have no idea how the orange food got in my armpit either, but I respect its journey.
Dada appears in the doorway holding the steaming cup that they drink from every morning. “Coffee?” he offers.
“Please,” mama says in the voice that means she really, really wants the coffee.
He hands it to her and they do the thing where they touch faces for a second. I don’t understand this ritual but they do it a lot.
“I’ll make breakfast,” dada says. “Eggs?”
“Eggs sound like they require effort.”
“Toast?”
“Toast sounds perfect.”
“We’re really killing this whole adult thing,” he says.
“Absolutely crushing it,” mama agrees.
Later, I’m in the high chair. The chair that isn’t really high, just regular chair height, but they call it the high chair anyway. The big people name things wrong all the time.
Mama has a bowl of orange stuff. The same orange stuff that somehow ended up in my armpit. She calls it sweet potato but I call it weird texture substance.
“Okay, Rory,” she says, holding up a spoon. “The internet says babies love this. And you’re a baby. So let’s try.”
I watch the spoon come toward my face. I’m not sure about this.
The orange substance touches my tongue. I process this new information. It’s… strange. Not bad strange. Not good strange. Just strange.
I spit it out to analyze it further.
Mama makes a sound like air leaking out of her. “She hates it.”
“She doesn’t hate it,” dada says from behind his glowing rectangle, the thing that captures moments and turns them into flat images. “She’s investigating.”
I am investigating. Specifically, I’m investigating how the orange substance is now on my hands and my bib and somehow in my hair again. How does it keep getting in my hair?
“Rory, please,” mama says. “You need to eat something besides milk. The doctor said.”
I grab the spoon and throw it. It makes an excellent sound when it hits the floor, a proper clang.
Dada laughs and then stops when mama looks at him.
“Don’t encourage her,” she says.
“I’m not! I’m just… appreciating her arm strength. That was a good throw.”
Mama tries again with a new spoon. This time when the orange substance enters my mouth, I blow air through my lips very fast. The orange stuff sprays everywhere in a beautiful pattern.
I am an artist.
Mama is covered in orange dots. She looks down at herself and makes a sound that might be crying or laughing or both.
“I have a master’s degree,” she says to nobody. “I published research. And I just got destroyed by a six-month-old with sweet potatoes.”
“She’s very advanced,” dada offers.
Mama starts laughing for real now. And then they’re both laughing and I’m laughing too, even though I’m not sure what’s funny except that everything is funny when everyone is laughing together.
The middle of the day is when we go outside. I know this because mama spent a very long time putting things in a big bag. So many things. Diapers and bottles and blankets and clothes and mysterious other items.
“Do we have enough?” dada asks, looking at the bag.
“We have seven diapers for a one-hour trip,” mama says.
“What if we need eight?”
“Then we come home. It’s not an expedition, James.”
“What if there’s traffic?”
“What if you relax?”
They do the thing where they pretend to argue but they’re smiling so it’s not real arguing.
Outside is bright and green and there are other small people and big people everywhere. We go to the park, which has grass and trees and something called a swing that dada puts me in.
The swing moves. Back and forth. Back and forth.
I have opinions about this.
Opinion one: this is interesting.
Opinion two: this is terrifying.
Opinion three: do it again immediately.
I cycle through these opinions very fast, making different sounds for each one.
“Are you having fun?” dada asks, his face worried again. “Or are you scared? Should I stop?”
I laugh because his face is doing the eyebrow thing again.
“She’s laughing! That’s good, right?” He looks at mama.
“That’s good, honey. You’re doing great.”
“I’m doing great!” He sounds surprised.
Another big person comes over with their small person. “How old?”
“Six months,” mama says.
“Oh, it gets easier after six months,” the other big person says.
Mama and dada’s faces light up with hope.
“I mean, then they start crawling and it gets harder. And walking is chaos. But six months is nice before all that starts.”
The hope disappears from their faces like water down a drain.
We leave the park after not very long. Mama and dada look tired. They look tired all the time, actually. I wonder why they don’t just sleep more. Sleep is easy. You just close your eyes and stop moving.
Although, thinking about it, I don’t actually sleep very much either. There’s too much to look at and experience and think about. Like how my toes exist and I can grab them. That’s worth staying awake for.
Night time is when the routine happens. The big people love routines. They talk about the routine like it’s a sacred thing.
Bath first. The small tub with warm water and bubbles. I like the bubbles until I try to grab them and they disappear. This is upsetting every single time.
Dada is washing my hair and mama is holding a towel and I am contemplating the nature of bubbles when I discover something amazing.
If I kick my legs really hard, water goes everywhere.
I kick.
Water explodes up and out in a magnificent arc.
Mama screams. Dada drops the soap. Water is everywhere, on them, on the floor, on the walls.
“Rory!” they both yell.
I laugh so hard I can barely breathe. This is the best thing I’ve ever done.
“She thinks this is funny,” mama says, dripping wet.
“She’s laughing at us,” dada agrees, also dripping.
“This is not…” mama starts, but then she’s laughing too.
And we’re all wet and the bathroom is a lake and I’m still kicking, making more waves, and they’re laughing even though they’re soaked and everything is chaos and perfect.
After bath is pajamas and then the feeding and then the story.
Tonight dada reads the moon book. We’ve read it so many times I could probably read it myself if I knew how to read or speak.
“Goodnight room,” he reads in his soft voice. “Goodnight moon.”
Mama stands in the doorway watching with the expression she gets when she’s feeling the big feelings. Her eyes go soft and her mouth does a small smile and she looks at dada and me like we’re the most important things in the world.
“Goodnight cow jumping over the moon…”
My eyes are getting heavy. I fight this. I don’t want to miss anything. What if something interesting happens while I’m sleeping?
“Goodnight light, and the red balloon…”
But dada’s voice is doing the sleepy voice thing. The one that makes my eyes want to close.
“Goodnight bears, goodnight chairs…”
I yawn. Just once.
“Goodnight kittens, and goodnight mittens…”
Dada stands very slowly, very carefully. He puts me in my sleep box, the crib, like I’m made of glass that might break.
I keep my eyes closed. This is a gift I’m giving them.
They tiptoe to the door. Dada’s knee makes the crack sound. They both freeze.
I don’t move. I’m generous tonight.
They make it out. I hear them in the hallway.
“We did it,” dada whispers.
“Don’t jinx it.”
“I’m not jinxing it. I’m acknowledging our victory.”
“There is no victory in parenting. Only temporary ceasefires.”
They laugh quietly and then it’s silent.
I lie in my crib thinking about the day. The orange food and the park swing and the bath catastrophe and the moon book. Thinking about mama and dada and how they worry so much about everything.
They don’t know what they’re doing. I can tell. They read books and look at their glowing rectangles and call their own big people for advice.
But here’s the thing I’ve figured out in my six months of being alive: nobody knows what they’re doing. Everyone is just trying their best.
And mama and dada? They try so hard. They love me so much it makes them scared. They worry about whether I’m eating enough and sleeping enough and developing enough and being happy enough.
They don’t need to worry so much.
I have everything I need. I have food when I’m hungry and warmth when I’m cold and arms that hold me and voices that soothe me and faces that smile at me and love that wraps around me like the warm water in the bath.
I am the luckiest small person in the world.
And mama and dada are doing great. They just don’t know it yet.
But I know it.
Someday when I can talk, I’ll tell them. I’ll say thank you for trying so hard and loving me so much and being my big people.
But for now I’ll tell them the only way I can: I’ll sleep for three whole hours tonight instead of waking up every two hours.
It’s the least I can do.
Outside my window, the moon is still there, just like in the book. Goodnight moon. Goodnight room. Goodnight big people who worry too much and love even more.
Goodnight world.
I’m here.
We’re all here.
And somehow, against all odds, we’re all doing just fine.