There’s something about holding a new baby that soothes the holder as much as the holdee. I guess the physical effect is similar to petting a dog but, of course, more profound. One’s heart rate slows, blood pressure lowers, brain wave patterns switch from beta to alpha. And this happens even without singing lullabies.
If the one doing the holding is the grandmother, the effect is multiplied tenfold. To think what my mother missed. She did not hold babies. Not me or my sisters. Not our children or theirs. She looked at them when they were in the hospital nursery, where there were plenty of professional nurses and a pediatrician standing by.
After that, we were on our own. I never realized that she was scared to death of babies. That in her world, and subsequently in ours, babies came home from the hospital with someone in a white uniform and starched cap, who stayed at least until they were enrolled in first grade. My nanny was with us until I was nine, then came back two years later to care for my younger sister.
My own children were held by their other grandmother, who had raised four of her own and several of her sister’s without benefit of uniforms and starched caps. She was in her seventies when my son was born, and some of her notions of child rearing were a bit antiquated, I thought.
But I remember the look on her face whenever she held Bobby in her arms. She would sit quietly, her eyes half closed, rocking gently back and forth. Soon her breathing would slow, her muscles relaxed and her expression became almost saintly.
Raising my own babies, there never seemed to be time for much sitting and rocking, though I stole every moment I could. In those days, bottles had to be sterilized, boiled in a big kettle on the stove, formula mixed and stored in the fridge. Diapers were washed, rinsed twice and hung on the line to dry. Disposables were not yet an option.
With the twins, everything was doubled, including the joy of holding one in each arm, rocking and humming.
Fathers were not expected to participate in any of this, although they felt free to make suggestions as to how it should be done. To think that generations of dads missed the whole experience because it wasn’t considered manly to feed, bathe or just hold a baby. They were off the hook without having to admit they were scared to death, too.
My fourth grandchild, Amy, joined us the day after New Year’s, about six weeks early, but an amazingly strong 6 pounds. Her brother, now 7, was seriously premature and spent three weeks in the neonatal ICU at Tarzana Hospital, where I was permitted (after scrubbing in) to hold him briefly. We got him home attached to a black box that monitored his heart rate and breathing. This made it awkward, if not impossible, to carry him around. I could hold him, still attached to his box, but it was hard to relax because as his heart rate slowed along with mine, the damn beeper would go off. I mostly had to sit by his cradle with my hand on his chest, feeling every breath. Later on, after the box was gone, he had fierce bouts of colic every day. We took turns walking with him, laying him on the clothes dryer, swinging, rocking. Sometimes, nothing worked. He was inconsolable. Then I discovered he liked opera. I was walking around the living room with him yelling his head off and we passed the TV where Luciano Pavarotti was yelling his head off. After a short duet, the baby stopped crying and stared, gape mouthed at the TV for the remainder of the aria, Nessun dorma, I believe. After that, I brought out my Three Tenor CDs. I swear he knew the difference between Pavarotti and Placido Domingo, though once he even calmed down for Barbra Streisand.
So far, Amy has not had colic, not cried loudly for any reason, and just loves being held quietly. This is great by me. We listen to classical music on NPR, a little jazz, and my new CD, Perpetual Motion, Bach violin inventions transcribed for banjo by Bela Fleck. It’s magical. I’d miss a deadline before I’d miss this.
Of course, I’m keeping Pavarotti close by, just in case. Rocking the baby to Bela and Bach
There’s something about holding a new baby that soothes the holder as much as the holdee. I guess the physical effect is similar to petting a dog but, of course, more profound. One’s heart rate slows, blood pressure lowers, brain wave patterns switch from beta to alpha. And this happens even without singing lullabies.
If the one doing the holding is the grandmother, the effect is multiplied tenfold. To think what my mother missed. She did not hold babies. Not me or my sisters. Not our children or theirs. She looked at them when they were in the hospital nursery, where there were plenty of professional nurses and a pediatrician standing by.
After that, we were on our own. I never realized that she was scared to death of babies. That in her world, and subsequently in ours, babies came home from the hospital with someone in a white uniform and starched cap, who stayed at least until they were enrolled in first grade. My nanny was with us until I was nine, then came back two years later to care for my younger sister.
My own children were held by their other grandmother, who had raised four of her own and several of her sister’s without benefit of uniforms and starched caps. She was in her seventies when my son was born, and some of her notions of child rearing were a bit antiquated, I thought.
But I remember the look on her face whenever she held Bobby in her arms. She would sit quietly, her eyes half closed, rocking gently back and forth. Soon her breathing would slow, her muscles relaxed and her expression became almost saintly.
Raising my own babies, there never seemed to be time for much sitting and rocking, though I stole every moment I could. In those days, bottles had to be sterilized, boiled in a big kettle on the stove, formula mixed and stored in the fridge. Diapers were washed, rinsed twice and hung on the line to dry. Disposables were not yet an option.
With the twins, everything was doubled, including the joy of holding one in each arm, rocking and humming.
Fathers were not expected to participate in any of this, although they felt free to make suggestions as to how it should be done. To think that generations of dads missed the whole experience because it wasn’t considered manly to feed, bathe or just hold a baby. They were off the hook without having to admit they were scared to death, too.
My fourth grandchild, Amy, joined us the day after New Year’s, about six weeks early, but an amazingly strong 6 pounds. Her brother, now 7, was seriously premature and spent three weeks in the neonatal ICU at Tarzana Hospital, where I was permitted (after scrubbing in) to hold him briefly. We got him home attached to a black box that monitored his heart rate and breathing. This made it awkward, if not impossible, to carry him around. I could hold him, still attached to his box, but it was hard to relax because as his heart rate slowed along with mine, the damn beeper would go off. I mostly had to sit by his cradle with my hand on his chest, feeling every breath. Later on, after the box was gone, he had fierce bouts of colic every day. We took turns walking with him, laying him on the clothes dryer, swinging, rocking. Sometimes, nothing worked. He was inconsolable. Then I discovered he liked opera. I was walking around the living room with him yelling his head off and we passed the TV where Luciano Pavarotti was yelling his head off. After a short duet, the baby stopped crying and stared, gape mouthed at the TV for the remainder of the aria, Nessun dorma, I believe. After that, I brought out my Three Tenor CDs. I swear he knew the difference between Pavarotti and Placido Domingo, though once he even calmed down for Barbra Streisand.
So far, Amy has not had colic, not cried loudly for any reason, and just loves being held quietly. This is great by me. We listen to classical music on NPR, a little jazz, and my new CD, Perpetual Motion, Bach violin inventions transcribed for banjo by Bela Fleck. It’s magical. I’d miss a deadline before I’d miss this.
Of course, I’m keeping Pavarotti close by, just in case.