In Like a Lion, Out Like a Lamb

By Shawnelle Eliason

No animal is so inexhaustible as an excited infant.
~Amy Leslie

I tried to comfort my two-week-old babe, but he wouldn't be comforted. I held him over my shoulder. He cried. I stretched him over my lap and rubbed his belly. No comfort. I sang softly into his tiny pink ears. He cried louder..

"I don't know what to do," I said.

"Let me try," Aunt Jane said. She'd arrived the day before from out of town. She swooped in and intercepted Logan. She bounced him and rubbed his back and moved her body in the mama-sway, but Logan still cried. "Well, I don't know what to do either," she eventually said. Aunt Jane continued to jostle and jiggle my babe, and I perched on the edge of the sofa.

"Maybe he wants to be rocked," I said.

Aunt Jane plopped into the rocker and turbo-rocked. Logan's fists curled into tiny red balls.

I could tell that the crying was unnerving Aunt Jane. She was older than me. She had raised her own children. And though she possessed a wealth of experience, she was accustomed to a quiet, still household.

Truth was, I was unnerved, too. Logan seemed to have his days and nights reversed, and I hadn't slept for fourteen moons. Aunt Jane's visit added pressure. As much as she desired to help, I needed to figure out how this new baby thing worked.

"He needs to nurse," my aunt said. "That's a hunger cry."

I'd tried to nurse him ten minutes before. He was too mad. But Aunt Jane was older and wiser. "Okay, I'll try," I said.

Aunt Jane slipped Logan into my arms. I tried to fashion a drape from his receiving blanket, but it was hard to do with seven pounds of wriggling baby on my lap.

When I thought I'd created a sufficient tent, I lifted Logan and fumbled under the Mickey Mouse flannel. Aunt Jane poked her head under the blanket.

"You have to get him latched right," she said.

Logan's rosy, tiny mouth stretched and contorted and produced louder, faster screams. He beat against the blanket. He had grown sweaty, and so had I. I could feel my own heart pounding in my head. Could I take Tylenol? I didn't know. I couldn't think.

Just then my husband, Lonny, whisked through the back door. He'd been helping the neighbor. "I heard the baby screaming all the way down the block," he said. "I came right home. Let me help."

Lonny reached under the collapsing flannel and extracted Logan. "Daddy's here," he said. More bouncing. More jostling. More singing.

"Try this," Aunt Jane said. Suddenly, Logan was in her arms again. She held him in one arm and did something that looked like it should involve a hula hoop.

"No," Lonny said. "I read that babies like the washing machine. Let's go start the washer." Lonny and Aunt Jane started down the stairs. Jane was wringing her hands, and Lonny was on a mission.

I caught a glimpse of Logan's dear, sweet, purple face as they rounded the corner.

I ran my fingers through my hair and bit my lip. I didn't want to cry. I was too tired to cry. I tried to listen to the muffled conversation in the laundry room, but Logan's shrieks drowned out the words.

Then my body kicked into action. Milk. Running hard and fast and making deep red stains of color on my red T-shirt. I could hear the washer chugging and Logan screaming. Aunt Jane and Lonny were coming back up the stairs, devising the next plan. The noise and the tension mounted.

I didn't hear the back door open. Suddenly, my neighbor friend, Barb, stood in the center of the chaos. Her hands were on her hips, and she wore that take-charge-mama face that I'd seen her wear with her teenagers.

"What is going on here?" she asked. "That poor baby's cries are traveling clear across town."

No one answered, except for Logan, whose cries had grown raspy and jagged.

Barb looked at Lonny and Aunt Jane, still flipping Logan back and forth. She noticed my T-shirt, growing more deep red by the minute.

"This baby is over-stimulated. You're moving him back and forth like a Hacky Sack. Mama is tired and uptight." Then she walked over to Lonny. "Now put that baby down."

Lonny was surprised. But he listened. He walked to the cradle and set the tiny bundle inside.

Logan drew a few deep gulps of air. His arms and legs relaxed. His eyes closed, and his color returned to a healthy pink.

Barb turned to me. "Now you go shower while your baby is sleeping. Then you curl up on this sofa and take a rest, too."

Then she turned to Lonny and Aunt Jane. "Lonny, you go back to your work outside. Jane, it would be a good time to make dinner."

Lonny and Aunt Jane looked at one another. Then their eyes refocused on Barb. They knew she wasn't finished.

"Now when Logan wakes up, you keep busy. Let Shawnelle and Logan have some time. The baby will need to eat, and that only takes two. They have everything they need."

The room had grown quiet. Very, very quiet.

"Now I'm going home," Barb said. She turned and left, leaving the three of us bewildered. There was no sound except for the swoosh and click of the back door.

After a moment, Lonny broke the silence. "What just happened?" he asked.

"I don't know," I said. I peered into the cradle. Logan's breath had fallen into a sweet, peaceful rhythm. "But it worked."

Lonny shrugged. "Guess I'll go mow the lawn," he said.

"I'll peel some potatoes," Aunt Jane said. "And start the pot roast."

"I'm heading for the shower," I said.

We dispersed.

I climbed the stairs for the shower and shook my head. The house was so quiet, I could hear the creak of the steps.

I was grateful for Lonny and Aunt Jane's well-intended help. But mostly I was grateful for Barb, who walked into a household that roared like a lion and walked out of a household that was quiet as a lamb.

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