It’s been 33 Christmases since we’ve had
a baby boy to fuss over, and that one’s
grown up to be a band director,

and his sister, the high school photography
teacher, and her husband have thoughtfully
brought the best gift to the party—

their firstborn, a son, all of seven months
old, who provides all the entertainment
nine grownups could want. He’s better

than “White Christmas” on the big TV.
My sister and I don’t even sing along
when Rosemary Clooney and Vera Ellen

go into their “Sisters” number with their
gorgeous aqua dresses and feathered fans.
We are focused on The Baby, who is

Henry, and we take turns holding him,
jostling him, feeding him, soothing him,
not least my sister and brother-in-law,

the delighted grandparents who babysit
weekdays. He is a gem in every way, of
course, sweet and easily amused,

incredibly tolerant of all the holiday
hub-bub, tired but fighting it, not
wanting to miss the goings-on.

Next year we’re eager to see his
bigger version tearing into pretty paper
to see what surprises hide there.

Henry will be past this baby stage,
well into toddler-hood, and we
will, as humans do, miss this

drooling, bright-eyed boy with his
close cap of barely there red hair.
It’s all going so fast, his mama

will say, and we who remember her
and her brother at this age will
nod and smile, marveling at how

far they’ve traveled in these human
journeys, all of which come and go
so much faster than any of us

would like.