"Wanna hold the baby?" Christy asked, effervescing.
It's not an uncommon question lately, but it certainly is a curious one. Why would I want to hold the baby? I don't want to hold her older brother. I don't want to hold your new vase. I don't want to hold the sack of flour over there on the counter. I have no unrequited holding longings whatsoever, thanks. In the event I yearn to hold something, I'll let you know.
Now, I understand why the parent might want me to hold the baby: so they can get a break. Lord knows every time I step into the Metamuville store, Dirt thrusts Ava into my hands. "Here. Hold this a sec." And then he'll walk outside, lie on a picnic table, heave an enormous sigh, and watch the seagulls fly overhead while he nurses a seven-inch cigar like it contains the last oxygen on Earth.
I cannot help but admire his shamelessness.
With Christy, though, it was different. The child was pleasantly sleeping. For some reason, it was important to Christy that I want to hold the baby; when I politely declined, she was visibly disappointed. "You men," she finally sneered. "So phobic of babies. You're not going to break her, you know."
Yes, that's it precisely. It's not that you made a bizarre request for me to do something wrist-gashingly boring. It's fear. Fear of my incompetence, fear for the safety of your child. It's like you're inside my head, it is.