We made some chit-chat and he officially introduced me to the baby (which was tiny and fuzzy and fruitlessly sucking on daddy's pinky finger) and this is when I made my first, minor, baby faux paus. He said, "This is Isaac." And I said, "That was my brother's name." The past tense in that sentence just makes it creepy and I was really glad I'd at least managed not to say "that was my dead brother's name," which would have only been slightly worse. I had long ago decided to keep my own connection to the name "Isaac" to myself, regardless of how meaningful it is to me, b/c to anyone else it probably seems morbid. And there it was. I said, "That was my brother's name." And he said "Oh." And niether of said anything else for, I think, obvious reasons.
When I'm depressed (which I think I've probably been for a week or so now) I get even more socially awkward than normal. So, after the initial moment with the baby, the chit chat started to peter out and I wasn't sure what to say next. This is when the bigger faux paus occurred. It was so natural, so unplanned, there was nothing I could've done. It was just a spontaneous reaction. Daddy said, "So, do you want to hold him?" And I immediately put my hands up as though warding off some kind of attack, and said, "No, no, no, no, no, no, no. No. Thanks. But. No." Of course I felt like a fucking idiot, but too late to make it any better. Daddy was quick to try and comfort me, "Oh, it's ok. You don't have to hold him." He said some stuff about how they seem so fragile when they're that young, how even he was afraid to hold the baby at first, etc, etc. It was nice of him, but, what else was he gonna do? Tell me I was a freak for practically running back into my house and slamming the door in his baby's face?
And what's wrong with me anyway?
Nothing. It seemed silly for him to hand his baby off to me for no other reason than to just give me the pleasure of holding the baby. Have I blogged about this already? As I write it, it feels familiar. Anyway, yeah. The baby was perfectly happy just laying in his dad's arms, sucking his dad's pinkie. That baby did not have any interest in being uprooted just so some strange woman could have a moment of baby-inspired joy. Baby's are nice, but how much joy can they really inspire, anyway? Especially the fragile, week old, pink and fuzzy kind? I guess it's no shock to hear I don't really like kids.
Oh well. What are you gonna do?