In praise of what's inside the diapers

I WATCH THE younger couples in our ward (which, these days, is most of

them) lugging around diaper bags and strollers, with babes in arms

crying or sleeping, toddlers trotting along or getting dragged, and I'm

envious.

    

Child-rearing is the closest we can come to understanding God.

Giving all we can when the little ones are hopelessly dependent on us.

Standing back and letting them make their own mistakes when they hunger

for independence long before they really understand the consequences of

their own choices.

     

It's a glorious ride, even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard.

     

I hear other grandparents joking about how the best thing about grandkids is that you can give them back.

     

I don't get the joke. I think the worst thing about grandkids is that I have to give them back.

     

Though at the moment, the worst thing about grandkids is that all

of mine live in the state of Washington, the opposite coast from me.

     

So I adopt children in the ward. Not officially, of course. They

all have perfectly good parents. I just get hungry to hold a baby in

that rocking-back-and-forth posture that puts them to sleep, or to tuck

a squalling youngster into that football-carry position that often

calms them down. I like to hold them by their wrists as they grip my

fingers and push up from my lap, trying to stand.