The lad in question is a few days old. He’s so tagged in the title for the nicknames he has already acquired. My family is big on nicknames; these have sprung on a nearly daily basis, in part from how the taquito loves to be swaddled, his amazing head control, and that he is merely a pipsqueak. He’s also the most adorable chap in the neighborhood, and I’m the luckiest abuela around.
His birth was notable for a couple of things; he cried nearly nonstop once he was born, leaving us all to wonder if this was a sign (It wasn’t; he seems to have gotten past that initial crankiness, settling into a soothing pattern of burrito-swaddled sleep.) The other issue was how my daughter went into labour, in the middle of the day. She and I went to hospital to determine if she was in true labour; indeed she was, and there was set into action the events that led to one little boy’s entrance into this world.
Well, Buttercup helped too. My daughter can’t resist giving that hound her due attention, and as my daughter return to her feet, a certain sense of impending change was noticed. That ushered in a night I will always remember.
A few days away from such stupendous happenings, I have the time to write this post, reflecting on all that has altered. A baby has invaded, and what a glorious, if not sleep-depriving, manner in which to now live our lives. So many lives have been enhanced upon the burrito’s presence; we bask in the aura he emits, which is often that of peace, for he has taken up nursing and sleep with relative ease. His voice emerges when he’s wet; he does not like being wet. He appreciates his hunger signs noted in an expedient manner. He is a swaddle-king, hence the taquito-burrito handle. And he’s a strong fellow, bobbing his head along shoulders as if he’s a few weeks old. He induces calm, which wafts throughout the house like blessed incense; perhaps my feet ache at the end of the day, yet all I realize is the giddy glee of grandmotherhood. Even at five-thirty this morning, I had made up a little song, toting him to and fro: Grandma likes to sing her song, but you don’t get to sing along. All you get to do is yawn.
I’m not a lyricist, but hey, it rhymes.
When the burrito came home from hospital, I sent my nearest and dearest an email, noting that while the writer in me could wax all about the details, the abuela in me was ready for sleep. There’s a fine line about recalling everything that happened and staying in the moment. More pictures than I have sense have been taken, a few scattered within this post. I have no idea for how long he’ll be known as the burrito; maybe tomorrow he’ll manage a most fantastic feat and we’ll be calling him…. Aha, that must be left until tomorrow. Today, he’s adorable. His hat confirms it.
Welcome to the family, my beautiful taquito grandson. May your life be full of wonder, joy, and even a real burrito or two….