A room over, I see the pack and play and the baby who soundly sleeps inside it, and it’s all I can do to keep from snatching him into my arms. The mere sight of him stirs a love within me that borders obsession. From the minute he was born, he became the love of my life. Not only that, biased or not, he’s the most adorable baby I’ve ever seen. Bright-red strawberry hair, cheeks so big and so full, they impede his speech. I’m a sucker for his large green eyes, the only child in the Collin’s family to escape the brown. His perfect, pink-tinged mouth is shaped in a tiny ‘o’。 He’s dressed only in his diaper and wool socks due to the heat from the roaring fire below, which warms the upstairs of the cabin.
His pudgy little body is nothing but dents and rolls as he lays comatose. My heart swells unbearably as I stare down at him.
My sister had my dream baby.
Aunts aren’t supposed to pick favorites, but of all my nieces and nephews, the force with this one is too strong to ignore. He stirs a little as if he senses me, and his eyes flutter before he nestles further into the playpen. It’s then that the greed overtakes me. I gently lift him from where he sleeps, and he jerks before he settles into my chest as his scent—baby lotion—surrounds me. Unable to resist, I steal a kiss, and he sighs as if he knew it was coming. I can’t help the bounce of my chest as he smashes his eyes closed to try and get back to where he was in his dream, his light strawberry lashes fanning over his ridiculously full cheeks. “Now you, little lady killer, well, you are the greatest Christmas present a girl could ever ask for.”
I settle into the old rocker that my grandmother put in the room specifically to rock her great-grandchildren and gently press off the old carpet with my foot. Snow drifting heavily past the window, I soak in the moment. I get so few of these. Every time Peyton’s in my arms, it’s a bittersweet reminder that this is as close to parenthood as I’ll ever get.
My uterus was considered geriatric years ago, and last year I voluntarily retired my number. On my last birthday, I decided that if I managed to find a husband, the desire to parent has—for the most part—left me.
I always assumed forty was the cutoff date, but my gynecologist informed me that’s when things can get dicey and dangerous. Knowing my window was, is closing, I did nothing about it and am purposely letting the clock tick out.
Stupidly, and when I was most anxious to have a family, I never considered having a baby without a partner. In truth, I’ve never really had a partner I’d considered having a baby with, save one. Ironically, he was the opposite of the definition of a family man.
I’ve now accepted that any child in my life would be produced by my siblings—and that is enough. And it has been. Mostly. But every now and then, I get the feeling that I’ve missed something big, a rite of passage as a woman in the human experience.
When I hold Peyton in my arms, I feel I’ve missed nothing.
I pull off his sock and study the plump ridge on the top of his foot before running my finger over it. He jerks it away, and I giggle, murmuring into his hair. “Come on, little moo-moo, let Auntie see those Jersey Cow eyes. Let me see them.”
He roots into my neck, perfect pink lips agape as if he’s milk drunk. I gently nudge him. “Wake up for me, baby boy. I need you to see me before your sister does my clown makeup and I scare you half to death.”
Unable to wake him without feeling a villain, I stare out the window at the falling snow, listening to the human noise below. My father with his staple gun just below us, my mother in the kitchen using her mixer while listening to Brenda Lee, and the sound of the garage door closing as my sister christens the old dusty boxes with a bit of Bob Marley.
For a brief second, I get a glimpse—a memory of pounding down the stairs on Christmas morning, seeing my grandparents in their rockers, their champagne glasses full as they greeted us while we screamed like banshees. Our parents sidled up next to them on the love seat, champagne glasses of their own in hand.
Clouded in the moment, I jerk back when blinding pain shoots from my eyeball to my temple, the squeaky voice of the culprit sounding out the name of the appendage he just damaged as I try to hold in my yelp. “Eyeeee,” Peyton squeals. Eye watering and blinking repeatedly, I laugh as the baby straightens in my lap and head butts my chin to situate himself before he stabs me again, “Mose, mouph, cheen.” In pain but unable to resist, I squeeze him to me. “Hey baby boy, did you have a good nap?”
“Mep.”
“What?” I laugh out incredulous. “Did you say yep?”