"Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up." ~Pablo Picasso

According to the Catholic church, godparents are supposed to support the parents as they raise their children Catholic. If anything were to happen to the parents, the Godparent would be expected (by definition) to take over, making sure the child was receiving proper Religious Education according to the parents' wishes. This is not the same as taking CARE of the children should the parents die. The legal guardian in the will is often different from the godparents chosen at baptism.

In our family of a gazillion, godparents are everywhere, just as children are abundant. Affectionate by nature, when the doors opened at family parties, I would run to my aunts, throwing my little arms around them as tight as I could. And because of this, my godmother, my mother's oldest sister, would always tell everyone that I gave the best hugs. "You are the best hugger!" she would exclaim much to my delight, which made me want to hold on ten times tighter.

Often overwhelmed by gaggles of cousins, I would find quiet time sitting with her among the adult aunts and uncles. Though I didn't pay attention to the conversation, I was comforted by the physical connection, sitting on her lap. She was one of the only aunts who could stand to have me sit with her; the others complained that my butt was too bony and often dug into their thighs.

Luckily for me, in the early years of my life, she lived nearby and was often present at family parties, bestowing on me an extra special present because I was the "godchild." Desperate for attention and a sense of individuality, I craved the feeling at the age of 5 and 6 and 7 that I was indeed unique and deserving of such magic. The extra gift often set me apart from the other cousins and it particularly offended my cousin Christine.

A confident little girl, always setting trends, Christine was the cousin I adored. Two years older than me and consistently full of wisdom and a general knowledge about what was "cool" and what "wasn't", I trailed after her, eager for some of her hipness to be transferred to me. I often walked or skipped behind her, sure to plant my feet in the exact spot where her shoes had touched the pavement, hoping one day I would start to become just a little bit more like her. It never ever happened.

Always one ahead of me, Christine was outraged at my extra "godchild" gifts. She would taunt me and tell me how awful it was that I received an extra present. Secretly happy that I had something of mine to hold onto, Christine could never fully deflate my happiness. My aunt and I had a close bond together and no one else was permitted inside. I was the Super Hugger. I was special.

Tragedy struck when my aunt moved away to Maryland. There was an occasional phonecall or card but nothing ever regularly came from her. My birthdays passed, all forgotten. In the event that she would call and would also get me on the phone, she told me how often she was praying for me and that she missed me.

I realize now that prayers are a sacred gift and as godparent, she was fulfilling her religious obligations. A dedicated Catholic and deeply spiritual person, my aunt continually offers up prayers for my safety and well-being. However, to an 8-year old, it is the hugs that matter, the pale blue wrapping paper that adds up. Prayers seem like an empty excuse.

She returned to the island for a visit a few years after she moved away. It was 10 years ago exactly, in the spring/summer of 1995. I was tickled with excitement, eager to rush at her and give her the enormous hug I knew she had missed. We were having a family picnic at a state park when she arrived. A bunch of us ran to greet her. She had a new daughter with her but other than that, she was unchanged.

I rushed at her and threw my arms around her and she laughed, pleased. Then she took my shoulders in her hands and stepped back to look at me clearly. Her eyes did not flash with recognition and that is when she looked at my face and honestly questioned, "Okay. Now...which one are you?"

I was once again lost in the masses. Not only had she forgotten about me, but she failed to even recognize me. All the prayers in the world couldn't heal my heart. Trying to make sense of it, as everyone laughed amid the smell of hamburgers and the greenest grass, my 11-year old mind was racing and full of confusion. My cousins shouted and ran around me as I tried not to show the hurt and feelings of utter abandonment--the worst feelings for a child, those of anonymity. I planted my bony butt on the hard picnic ground and watched the others play.

Peace.

For the record...

I'm not afraid of commitment. I'm just afraid of committing to the wrong person. I think the difference is important. That is all.

Let the children come to me.

Today, I arrived twelve minutes late to the baptism of my dear friend Regina's baby girl, Lily. This was due to the fact that I had agreed to ride over to the church with my aunt and uncle and we of course had chatted too long about how my 20 year old cousin Tom is balding and lost track of time. We managed to slip in right before the gospel and took a seat in the second to last pew. Lily was the only baby being christened today and the church was full of only close family and friends.

It had been awhile since I'd attended a christening--five years at least? I always remember being completely disinterested until the part where they actually pour water over the child and everyone eagerly waits to see if the baby cries or stays asleep. Today was different and I think perhaps because I was in more of a maternal frame of mind.

I had raced to the store no earlier than noon today in order to pick out the proper gift. I'd never actually shopped in the "Infants" section before and I had no idea what lay in store for me. I imagined long lines of white burping cloths and tiny white lace booties that always managed to fall off little feet. Would I be able to find anything appropriate?

After determinedly walking by the "Handbags and Accessories" department, (not before noticing an adorable pink purse with tiny straps), and making a few turns, I found myself smack in the middle of so many adorable outfits that it was hard not to charge the entire collection to my recently-paid-off Visa card. What struck me about all the baby clothes was not necessarily how the designer managed not to offend me with the sickly smiling Winnie the Pooh's but how incredibly tiny everything was. "Are babies really this small?" I wondered to myself incredulously.

I have always been a "baby person" who is "great with children". I love to babysit, I love to play, I love to gush. I appropriately coo at every child that I see and I study parenting techniques with the keen watchful eye of a hardworking medical student. I read up on childbirth and parenting religiously and truly believe that it is the one thing on earth that both terrifies me and absolutely fascinates me. Most of the time, I stupidly assume other people share my views.

"So, I was reading this birthing story," I related at one point to my squeamish never-having-a-child sister-in-law. "And you wouldn't believe it but she had three daughters and during EACH labor, her pelvis SEPARATED! Can you believe that!? It's like a one in a million thing but your pelvis can actually separate! Can you imagine the pain?!? Not to mention the vomiting and diarrhea AS she's trying to give birth."

My sister-in-law turns away in disgust. "Oh Laura," she begs, "please tell me you're joking."

"No way!" I declare, utterly unfazed. "Not only that but the epidural didn't even work! Do you know that some women just don't take to it!? It can actually just take to one side of your body, say the left side and so you feel 100% pain all down your right side! The ENTIRE TIME! Isn't that AMAZING?!"

It's true, I'm thrilled by the mere mention of it. But this doesn't take away the fact that I am terrified beyond belief. I firmly believe in my heart that I'd like to be forever pregnant (an excuse for my rather protruding belly and for eating lots of ice cream) and never actually have to get the child out of me. Every mother I see gets an immediate nod of approval from me simply for going through the torture.

No pain for me. No way. And therefore, at this point in my life, I was satisfied to go through all the tiny pants and skirts and matching hats for someone else's child. Still, it's hard not to pick up all the little articles of girly clothes and not be moved by it. I believe my uterus actually jumped a little bit as I fingered the various itty-bitty sundresses and oh-so-precious onesies. Well. I doubt my uterus jumped. It was more like a shimmy.

Happily wandering through aisles of Baby Girl Bliss, I came upon a mother with three children in tow and the little one in the shopping cart started crying. This outburst prompted one of the older ones to start crying and the mother, clearly exasperated muttered sarcastically, "Fine. Great. Everybody start crying. I love it." This continued until one sibling started a fight with the other who whined and yelled and complained to their mother, who took action. She firmly grasped the six-year old by the hair and said loudly, staring right into his eyes, "YOU ARE THE BIGGEST PAIN IN MY ASS."

My uterus, just seconds before shimmying with ease, suddenly deflated. I put down the adorable blouse I was holding and rested my hand on a rack of clothes in front of me. I tried to watch the children from the corner of my eye without looking too conspicuous. They were sniffling but going on as if that was a normal occurrence. I was appalled.

Do parents really think it's okay to tell their children that they are a pain in the ass? Do children understand this concept? Surely they are hurt more by the tone of the parents' voice but if they truly understand the phrase, isn't that ten times worse? This was the kind of mother who openly called her children "jerks" and told them to "shut up". These are the harsh kinds of words that should never ever be allowed into an innocent child's head, no matter how frustrated and tired the parent. That is me. Judgmental and young and unknowing about what it's really like to be a parent. But I think I'm sensitive enough to know that tiny piece of truth.

The mother had nearly ruined my lovely shopping excursion. I tried to focus on the task at hand--finding a present for a lovely baby who was well-loved and would hopefully never be called a string of insulting names. I got lost once again in the adventure and decided to indulge Regina's little baby, probably buying more than I should. My reasoning was that I HAD to buy cute things for SOMEBODY and that a child of Regina's deserved it more than anyone. I figured if a girl who's not quite my age can have a gorgeous healthy child, who am I not to brazenly support her?

Would I at 20 or so willingly give up college and life as I know it to go home and go through with an unplanned pregnancy? You read stories about it all the time but would you actually *do* it? The act alone was worth ten thousand times more than I shelled out for the adorable baby giftbag and matching yellow tissuepaper. Regina's child was a symbol of courage. And damnit if I wasn't going to make sure that little Courage was outfitted properly in a red butterly ensemble with matching denim hat.

And so I went, slipping into the service twelve minutes late. I caught the gospel and the explanation by the priest of Jesus and how He was indignant that the children should be allowed to be with Him. Baby Lily slept through the entire thing, including the pouring of the water. She was anointed, she was baptized, she was anointed again. She was prayed over, she was applauded and still the little one slept.

I watched Regina and her boyfriend John, proud beautiful parents. They held her so gently, they smiled so easily. They had taken a step up the ladder of life that I had not yet climbed. I was in awe of them as they stood beside the baptismal font. I was in awe of them sitting down holding her. I was in awe as the priest blessed them as parents and prayed over their heads.

As we welcomed baby Lillian Elizabeth to the Catholic faith, I couldn't help the tears that filled up my eyes behind my glasses. Ever the Catholic criticizer, I was suddenly weeping, incredibly moved that this tiny baby was part of a community she didn't even know existed yet. I had never before held an interest in this ceremony and suddenly I felt I knew what it was all about.

My lovely Lily outfits seemed so silly now as I thought of all that was in front of this child. She woke up (finally!) at the party afterwards and I was able to hold her for a brief few minutes. She nestled on my shoulder, stretched, drooled, blinked. Naturally, I imagined no baby on earth had ever done any of those things. Regina was all smiles, happy that I came, complimented my coat. All I could do was hug her and chit chat about the small things. I felt silly trying to convey to her all that I had felt for her and for the life she had created.

She was such a strong young woman but she carried with her the essence that she did not know exactly how amazing she was. I handed the baby over to a cousin I did not know and eventually said my goodbyes and left the party. Knowing inside I could never be a parent at this stage of my life, I was satisfied knowing in my heart that someday, I would. I convinced myself that someday I would have someone to share it with, someone to hold my hand during the process, even if now I was desperately lonely.

A clear sunny day had emerged despite the morning rain and I realized that ready or not, children were a very special blessing. Let them come to me. I mentally thanked the Lord for letting me live another day and then me and my shimmying uterus happily headed for home.

Peace.