Journeys

The other couple who live in our apartment complex had slightly premature twin babies in mid February. The babies were in the hospital for a while but now they have come home.

Since they came home I've had glimpses of their presence every now and then - rows of baby onesies hanging on the communal washing line, faint newborn crying. But the other day we had a odd confrontation. L and I were carrying our mountain bikes up some steps to the driveway and removing the front wheels so we could load them in our hatchback. At the same time, our neighbours were valiantly trying to load their double stroller, two baby car seats and assorted baby paraphernalia into their vehicle.

We chatted a little and I got my first good look at one of the babies - a small sleepy bundle. It turned out this was the first time they were leaving the house with the babies since they had come home. S, the mother, was looking a little grey with fatigue. When I asked her how it was all going she simply said "It pretty full on".

It was an odd moment because if my second pregnancy had worked out I too would have been lugging around a newborn right then. Or if my third pregnancy had worked out, I would have had a visible bump and been able to trade stories about the trials of pregnancy. But as things were, I was still footloose and fancy free, about to spend the afternoon whizzing around on my pretty new bike with my partner and to spare no thought for the needs of any other. And at that moment, although I would happily give a kidney or some other body part to have a baby myself, I was glad that I was not the one weighed down with responsibility and the awful slog of wrangling two new borns.

Last night I was walking past their lounge window on my way to the car, and as I have been doing habitually since the babies came home, I tried to subtly catch a glimpse of the interior. This time I saw J, the father, in the cosily lighted room, cradling a newborn gently on his lap, gazing enraptured at his child. And I felt like the orphan child in the Hans Christian Anderson fairy tale who presses her nose against the glass of the rich house on Christmas eve to glimpse the beauty of the Christimas tree and the glorious presents wrapped beneath.