He Ain't Heavy, He's My Baby

One time, a bunch of my friends and our kids and I walked from my house down Main Street in Groton to a parade. I figured my two-year-old would scamper along with the rest of the kids, but no. He walked about half a block before he announced, “I wan carryou.” So, I picked him up and carried him the five blocks or so.

We arrived at the parade origin and he continued to cling like a koala. He was sucking his thumb, people-watching, as we waited for the parade to start.

And then, “I wan my lowie,” he said urgently, leaning over. He was referring to his “lovey,” the teddy bear-blanket combo that he has snuggled with since birth. It must have fallen to the ground when I shifted him onto my other hip.

“THAN gyoo,” he sang as I handed it to him. He laid it across my shoulder and put his head down.

The parade formed, and we marched alongside it until it ended at the town field. All the kids dashed up to the library playground, except for my youngest, who had fallen asleep. I found a bench and rocked him while kids and parents scurried about, checking in and chatting from time to time.

We all traipsed back to my house on the rail trail, me lagging behind, lugging my slumbering son. I hauled him straight up to bed, laid him down gently, and pulled off his shoes. But…

…where was his lovey!?

It wasn’t on either of my shoulders. “Please let it be somewhere in the house,” I prayed, thinking maybe I had dropped it in the foyer when I paused to kick off my shoes. It wasn’t. Panic set in.

I told my friends I’d be right back and dashed out. Yes, we have more than one lovey, but my son knows the difference and sometimes favors his “notherwon lowie” or wants “one-two-three lowies.” Besides, this was the blue one with his name on it.

I had no idea how long he would sleep, so I ran. Thoughts of him waking up without his lovey had renewed my strength. I got back on the trail at Pleasant Street, and bolted all the way to May & Hally before I spotted it. Time stood still for a moment: I was running in slow motion – as sometimes happens in dreams – with all the sentiment evoked by the theme song from Chariots of Fire.

Defying bike path etiquette, I made a beeline for it, cutting off a few cyclists who were obviously training for the next Tour de France. I know this because I had to pardon their French as they swerved and braked to avoid first me and then the lovey lying in their path.

I snatched up the lovey and clutched it to my chest, choking not only for breath but also on the lump in my throat. I racewalked back home. My son only stirred as I tucked the lovey in next to him. He would never know it had been missing.