The Baby in the Lobby

“Ugh,” she says, “he can’t find parking. Take the baby!” and she places her infant in my arms. I stand in the lobby of my office building, startled.

I haven’t met her in person before. I have spent long weeks trying to get her to my office for a meeting. We needed interpreters on the phone, social workers as go-betweens. She speaks a language that’s rare, even in this language-heavy town. Whatever she said to me wasn’t quite “he can’t find parking. Take the baby!” but I could tell what she meant by her gestures, her few words, the quick swing of her small child into my arms. She goes back outside to help her husband.

I stand in the lobby a minute, staring. G is four years old now. He is lanky and sprawling against my body when I hold him. His expressions are quick, intentional. This tiny lump of baby just looks up at me, wondering. Her dark skin is wrapped in brilliant colors. Her eyes try to focus on too many things at once.

“Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree,” I sing, rocking her back and forth in the middle of the lobby, “merry merry king of the bush is he–eee.” Verse after verse I sing, swaying and wondering as the minutes click by if her mom is actually coming back again.

I look up and see your eyes watching the baby. You get a look when you see babies, as though something magical is unfolding.

You see the clamor in the lobby all day long. I wonder what the job description said when you applied for it. Receptionist? Administrative assistant? Could it possibly have honestly said “wrangler of confusion, bearer of information, interpreter of questions, queen of the chaos?” Each person coming in to our building stands before you. For many of them, their agony and frustration turn their tone raw. You listen through the confusion of their words to say: “Oh, you’re looking for so-and-so. Let me get her for you;” or “Here is the application you need,” or “I see; let me help you.”

The day rolls on, and the swell of people needing things never ceases. You hold their needs in your hand, one by one, pointing them towards a path through the chaos of their lives.

I wonder, sometimes, how you do it. How do you hold people, one after another, with grace and patience?

“Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree,” I sing again to the tiny child. I watch you watch the baby. You smile at her the way you have smiled at the children of Nepali and Somali Bantu and Congolese refugees in need of housing; the way you have watched the children of frazzled first-time home buyers, wanting to finally get a financial toe-hold in this world; the way you have watched the children of tenants behind in rent. You seem to hold her in your heart as easily as you hold the small babies of co-workers. You look at her the way you look at your own lanky, nearly-grown son. You watch the children as though they are magic unfolding.

You smile as you watch this tiny babe in my arms. You and I make eye contact when her mother finally returns. We both know we have to give the baby back.

I hand the tiny baby back to her mother, and a smile spreads across her mother’s face. The baby nestles in as I lead the way back to my office for our meeting.

Today, it is this baby in our lobby. Tomorrow it will be another.

Every day, you watch the children, like they are magic unfurling.