Sunday, July 26, 1998

He'll always be 'my baby' to this mother

By Sharon Randall

In many Southern families, the youngest child - the so-called last of the litter - is forever known as "the baby."

Often it becomes the given name, yelled out the back door at supper time ("Baby, come and get it!") or shouted into left field at Little League games ("Quit chewin' your glove, Baby, there's a pop fly comin' your way!")

I knew a grown man whose business card read: "Bud 'Baby' Nodine, Used Cars and Dirt Fill." He said his mama called him "Baby," and if it was good enough for her, it had to be good for business.

A fighting word

As for me, I don't call my baby "Baby" any more. I did when he was born, when he was little. But being a California boy, unlike his Southern cousins, he never saw "Baby" as a term of endearment. To him it was a fighting word, a red flag to a Brahma calf.

"Don't call me baby!" he'd shriek at his big brother and sister. "I not a baby! I 'free' years old! I BIG!"

Then they'd sing, "Baby, baby, baby!" just to see his blue eyes bulge out of their little sockets. He'd come roaring like Road Runner, shinny up my leg and demand their swift execution.

I'd gather him up, a whirling mass of little-boy sweat and golden curls and righteous indignation. I'd hold him, rock him, calm him until he could listen. Then I'd say: "Everybody in the whole world knows you're not a baby any more. But you will always be 'my baby' to me."

He bought it. Every time.

Go figure.

Separate place

My grandmother had 12 children. She didn't know all their names. But they each held a separate place in her heart, she said, a single spot that could be filled by that child alone, even if every spot was marked "Reserved for What's-His-Name."

The relationships we share with our children differ, not just because of their birth order, but because of who we were when they were born.

With my oldest, I was a rookie. I thought everything he did or did not do was a matter of life and death and a personal reflection on me.

With my second child, my daughter, I was much more relaxed. She came with her own agenda, her own ideas on how she should be reared. All I had to do was sign the checks and keep out of her way.

With my third child, my baby, I was a veteran. Again, as with the first two, I fell hopelessly in love. But this time I was so relaxed I pretty much let him juggle knives.

I took risks with him that I didn't dare with his brother and sister. I delighted in him, not more or less, but in different ways than I did in them. He taught me things, whole new lessons than the ones they had to teach.

Job of the baby

That's the job of the baby to finish us off, so to speak, in ways both good and bad. With my baby, it's been mostly good. Some days I think, "What will I do if he leaves home?" Other days I think, "What will I do if he doesn't?" Like it or not, I know it will happen.

He turned 21 last week.

Yes, he is very big.

Everybody in the whole world knows he's not a baby any more. But he will always be "my baby" to me.

Happy birthday, Nate.

Sharon Randall is a winner of the American Association of Sunday and Feature Editors and the Best of the West commentary awards.

Scripps Howard News Service