Holding

7:19 a.m. -- 3 mos., 10 days old

Of more than a thousand parenting pleasures I hadn't anticipated, holding Baby A ranks close to the top. Which is good, since M and I spend a lot of time doing it.

I generally carry her in my left arm, leaving my right free to pat her back, pick up mail, change CDs, or, now that she's strong enough to wriggle free, catch her. (Beyond pouring milk for cereal, one-armed cooking remains beyond my level of expertise.) She likes to perch high, to look over my left shoulder. My left hand curls around her left hip. Gradually, especially if I'm comforting her or trying to put her to sleep, she sinks and rests her left cheek against my shoulder, her little chest pressed to mine, her butt tucked above my forearm. When newly asleep, her head often tucks securely under my jawline and above my Adam's apple. Over time, she curls into shapes that would have any adult seeking chiropractic aid. Her 90-degree neck twists and mid-back humps can be realigned, but to little avail, as she slumps into a new contortion. The positions cause alarm only among the unchilded.

The pleasure is primarily, of course, physical. It's like hugging a friend with whom one instantly connects: there's no awkwardness or fumbling, no sense that parts are unattended or require rearranging. Like a dowel in a groove, or two components assembled properly -- click, it fits.

But beyond her warmth and her weightedness, Baby A also brings an acceptance, or absence of resistance. If fussy with others, as a rule she'll instantly settle down in the arms of M or me. Several times a day she demonstrates a level of trust that I, a typically defended American adult male, can regard only as unfathomable. She has faith that I will sustain her.

One evening, after guests had visited and she had calmed only after curling into my arms, I came to M teary eyed and said, "My God -- she needs me." I meant in a way that no one had; lovers and friends, after all, could always find sustenance elsewhere. I suppose Baby A could, too. But she'd notice the lack. M of course understands this more deeply, biologically, having sustained the child first for nine months and now with milk pumping through her body. I can only imagine; the father-child bond is powerful enough. But while Baby A's trust and its attendant responsibility can be overwhelming, more often it's come to feel like a blessing.

Here's the contravening curse.

Baby A's a big kid -- 9.3 lbs. and more than 21 inches at birth, staying around the 95th percentile in weight and height ever since. Now she's about 15 pounds.(We'll find out precisely tomorrow at the pediatrician's.) And she's developed fast. Ability to track with her eyes, lift her head, grab a toy: all have arrived ahead of schedule. All of which is great.

But as she's gained strength and a sense of autonomy, she's begun to wriggle: back arches, legs pinwheel, hands clutch my sweater or grab at my face, head pivots side to side (especially when she's tired). Her skull remains relatively soft, but with the bonks my nose and cheeks and jaw have taken, I can anticipate boxer-like blows in the coming months.

And, as my sister concluded after holding her for about 30 seconds, "She's not ergonomic." There's nowhere to hold her in which one's body doesn't begin to torque or twist or tweak. Neither M nor I are in great shape (she with the excuse of pregnancy, I with none but a lifetime of lassitude), and our backs have become constant shifting masses of pain. M did something horrendous to the muscles under her left scapula this weekend, and at the moment she can't even shift in bed without grimacing.

What happens when the kid's 6 months? A year?

Here's the other tricky part about holding Baby A: she likes it so much she instantly notices its absence, even dead asleep. The sternest advice we received recently from my brother-in-law, a father of three, was to put the kid down as soon as her eyes closed. "Don't get her used to sleeping on your body, or you'll become the favorite pillow she can't sleep without." Umm -- too late, brother. Pillows we have become. Our once-productive lives are now passed as sentient pieces of furniture.

So we've begun a process of weaning her from our bodies. The best advice we've received is from my sister, who made the process of laying down her son so deliberate that it was capturable only in time-lapse photography. She would literally keep her hands on him for minutes, gradually withdrawing one and then, painstakingly, the second, replacing it on his chest if he stirred. Even after contact was broken she'd remain, hands hovering inches over his prostate body. "I swear he could feel my aura. He'd wake up if I broke the connection too fast."

So these days you can often find M or me hunched over a crib or a playpen, one hand perched inches away from Baby A's chest, murmuring inaudible prayers that she stay asleep so we can straighten up, rediscover our existence as human beings, and get three uninterrupted minutes to do some back stretches.