I need to know I still have the Mommy Touch, even if I’m no longer a Mommy of babies; I’m more of a “Ma!” now

I’m a baby borrower.

Yes, exactly that: I borrow babies.

I do give them back, albeit with a (hopefully) well-concealed reluctance. Even when they’re crying for their mothers because they’ve finished enjoying the wonder of my glasses, I’d hold fast if I could. I still want to try to soothe them.

I need to know I still have the Mommy Touch, even if I’m no longer a Mommy of babies; I’m more of a “Ma!” now. Mattie, my ninth grader, who enjoys her French lessons, has taken to calling me Maman, which at least injects a touch of elegance to this baby-less epoch of my life.

I don’t claim these babies in a scary, stalking kind of way, of course. You can still step into my house, borrow a cup of sugar, and go home with those items — and your child. I may just make you measure out your own sugar while I snuggle your little one, and, come to think of it, I may not be able to find the measuring scoop so quickly.

I may pretend to be scatterbrained when you spy the scoop inside the bag, but, inside, I’ll be celebrating eight more seconds of mushy baby time. You might mistake the light in my eyes for joy at your find, and I’ll leave you to your error. I could even have trouble locating the bright yellow bag of Domino, and have you root around my pantry or fridge by yourself while I engage your infant in Potchy, Potchy, Hentalach. If a toe is exposed, I’ll probably kiss it. If you’re related to me, don’t be shocked if I nibble it, too.