It's interesting to know that, as humans, we are not born with the ability to reach and touch something should the fancy to touch something strike. We can't feel what we want to feel, only what we happen to land upon. And our infantile jerks and reflexes keep us from any sort of quiet sanity for any length of time. Put an infant down for a nap without first inhibiting this reflex in some manner, and he or she will startle him or herself awake. And thus begins the inexorable crying which, in some cases, leads to bewildered tantrums. Your baby cries, too.
Such is the reason that one of the very first things a new parent will be taught is the art of swaddling. Our nurse was a double black belt in the art of Swaddle, proudly displaying her official Swaddlers® membership card upon her introduction. Not much is known about this ancient art of baby wrapping in those first few days at the hospital; your baby leaves the room crying and hysterical, and reenters in a wheeled plastic tub folded finely in a delicate flannel sheet like a baby caterpillar, sedate and serene. His arms are lost somewhere within the wrapping, and his tiny head is the only flesh left exposed. He remains thusly until the quake of his famished stomach revives him.
They smile because they know they're waking you up in 2 hours.
You meticulously unwrap your child the next morning to change his diaper and to feed him, taking note of the measured folds your nurse used, knowing for certain that you will succeed in a masterful swaddle without the need of expert training.
And then your time to shine finally arrives. You brush your partner aside as she stands helpless in a sad state of futility, your child flailing about like a fish out of water. "I saw what she did," you tell her in your best James Earl Jones. "I know her secrets of swaddling." And you lay out the flannel blanket. You make a fold here, a crease there, remembering vaguely from your childbirth class something about how it should resemble a baseball diamond. "The one constant through all the years," you continue as Mr. Jones, "is baseball." You place your child's head at "home plate" and wrap first base around his body. You take the outfield and pull it up to the pitcher's mound. Then, with the pride of a strong Father, like Mufasa, you wrap third base across and around his tiny torso, completing your first swaddle. "Remember who you are," you say as you look down at what appears to be a head emerging from a small bundle of dirty laundry. Standing back, you comfort your partner as you look upon your child and proclaim, "I am your father."
The truth is, it takes a while to perfect your method. But perfection you must achieve, for it is certain that your little infant, with her girly muscles, will wiggle and squirm her way out of the tightest and most secure of swaddles. Once air touches the exposed hand that breaks free, she will scream at the top of her lungs, letting you know that she has outwitted your scheme of bondage. She will look up at you and, through a sinister combination of outrage and laughter, tell you that you suck at wrapping an itty baby girl in a itty bitty bwanket.
And, deep down inside, you'll know she's right.
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