Holding My Baby

A woman gives birth
in this hospital. They put a wristband
on her, the father (if he's around),
and on the baby. All matching wristbands,
with security codes.

The baby gets an ankle band, too,
with a clunky, awkward plastic casing
that houses an electronic device, like the kind
they put on clothes at the mall, and
the cashier takes them off with a special tool
after you pay. The cashier knows
that the clothes rightfully belong to you,
because of the authenticity of your funds,
because the cashier witnessed the exchange
of money and merchandise. You were
also there to verify the transaction.
Everything checked out.

What did a woman give in exchange for
ownership of a baby? Love? Pain?
Neither are recognized legal tender.
Why does hospital policy and local custom
state that a baby belongs to the mother
from which he or she emerged? Perhaps
the baby should stay with an adult
whose credentials are more becoming of a parent,
one who could promise a more profitable return
on that little bundle of human investment?

A parent's claim of custody
makes less sense when you talk about
it with cashiers when they're cashiering.
But if you discuss motherhood and fatherhood
with the people who I love and the people who love me,
(some of who happen to be cashiers)
parenthood feels lovely in the mind
and lovely in the heart.

Better yet, if you stay here with me
in this hospital room, and you see the cross on the wall,
that comforting reminder of our Savior,
and you see the crib, baby blankets and a teddy bear,
if you stay with me and my wife and my baby,
and maybe take a turn or two
holding the baby, things will feel lovely.