My Babies (Tara Taylor Quinn)

I am a mother. A nurturer. I think I was born that way. Well, except for that little blip out of time I took when I was two and reportedly would sit on my one year older brother's back while he was watching TV and pull his hair while he laid there quietly watching his shows with tears rolling down his cheeks. I'm going to think that I didn't know he was crying or I would have stopped, dried his tears, and found a way to soothe the wound.

I'm not always good at nurturing, but always, the need to nurture is there. It's my first instinct. My largest desire. I need to take care of those I love.

And right now, circumstances are preventing much of that. I'm being told no. I'm going insane with all the 'no's.' Even my computer is telling me no. My desktop computer. The nice big one with the screen that doesn't give me optic migraines. It's suddenly come down with a virus. And the virus won't let me download anti-virus software. It won't let me on the Internet to get a fix. I've nurtured for about six hours in the past two days and it continues to throw up on me.

But just about when I'm at the point of thinking that I might as well give up, that my brand of nurturing is not right for this world, I have this little paw scratching at my thigh. And when I look down, there are two big brown eyes in a sweet little furry face, staring up at me intently. Filled with message. With need. With hope. And my focus is back.

On the babies.

Today I'm thinking about six of them.

One isn't a baby at all anymore, but she'll always be my baby. I have her law school graduation picture on my PDA phone. I carry her with me every single place I go. What I'd give to be able to drive half an hour to wait another half hour to have sixty seconds of her time, do her a favor, and drive another half hour back to my office. I mean that. I miss that so much.

Two is still a baby. She'll always be a baby. She's my little savior and I'm her willing slave. She laid the parameters for the relationship, but I accept them wholeheartedly. She's on my lap now, curled up asleep. Content in knowing that she reigns. That she is loved. And when she wakes up and starts scratching on my arm, I'll rub her. And keep rubbing her. Taylor Marie loves her rubs. And I love her.

Three - well I don't know what he is. A big baby. Without a lot of, well, shall we say, education? Jerry's...Jerry. And he's loyal. And loving. And time consuming. He needs to be nurtured. And I need him.

Four...not four in importance, just fourth on this list today, is my nine year old niece. She's not a baby. But she's my baby in my heart. 'Enquiring minds want to know' describes her. She's sensitive and aware of everything and everyone around her. She spent Saturday learning string games with her Dad, which made her perfectly happy, and her smile soothes my heart.

Five...by order of birth still has a tiny bit of baby in her. She's a trip. A drummer who clearly hears her own beat. She reminds me of me. And I feel sorry for my brother and his wife when she's a teenager. I figure I might be needed then. She's a lover. And because she's so young, she still feels safe giving her affection to everyone who walks in her door. I dread the day that changes. And pray that I'm still on the side she trusts to care about. Right now, one of her biggest upsets is the fact that she doesn't get to do everything her nine year old sister can do. She's only four. Not old enough. She doesn't think that's fair. So...this little princess being who she is, has announced that on her next birthday she's turning eight. Period. No negotiations. Problem solved.

Six...but definitely not least is my little Bubby. From the moment that soul was a dot on an ultrasound, he's had my heart. His grin heals hurt every single time. He's three and all boy. And with Down Syndrome he's a little slower than the girls to get to all of his growing stages. But that doesn't seem to faze him. Or upset him. He just proceeds at his own pace - the happiest little guy I've ever known. On Saturday, for the first time, I heard real words come out of him. He's made sounds, said words, but they weren't clearly articulated. On Saturday, they were. Only one at a time. And that was perfect. His voice was sweet. Smooth. And a miracle. I picked him up and hugged him and I've been worrying ever since that I hugged him too tight and that he'll associate pain with my hugs and not want them anymore. He didn't squirm or appear to be uncomfortable, but I am a worrier. I want to rush back and hug him softly.

There are others I need to nurture. Some I can, some I can't. But the need is always there. Pressing to be released. I guess it's all part of being a woman.

And I'm okay with that.