213/365 Maeve's Baptism

It seemed inevitable. Maeve's baptism was going to be on the last page in a book of baptisms, the same way I was on the first page of Mary Mother's book of baptisms. The parish was closing and my girls' records would be down at some dusty library. Or shifted to another parish and be out of place. This bothered me, the physical change aspect, almost as much as the loss of community--I was on a downswing at church and I wasn't connected very well to others. But the idea that this place was soon to be no more, and the names of my children would be stored in a box in an office of records just really disturbed me. I remember asking Mike's uncle, a priest in Belleville, if maybe I shouldn't baptize Maeve at our parish, if maybe I should do it down in Cairo like her cousins and all the others in Mike's family. But he told me I shouldn't be so concerned about where a list of names was going to live. Do it at my parish. He was right, of course, and I was weird and post-partum like after all the babies.

We still had the big hot tub looking baptismal font in back--tall and covered in cheap paneling. After the homily, which had a lot to do with the tsumani that had just hit south Asia, we walked back for the baptism. Fr. Bill held Maeve, up on a step stool, with Mike next to him. I stood down on the ground level with the godparents and relatives. Bill wasn't one to skimp on the water, and doused Maeve well. And after, he looked down at her and smiled. She was grinning at him, and it caught him off guard and made him forget his lines.

I loved that moment. One of those treasured in her heart moments. As time goes by, things start to amalgamate. I don't remember, without photos, what Sophia or Maeve looked like when they were tiny. I don't recall the specific sound of a baby's laughter compared to another. But some things I keep.

There's a lazy eye that looks at you
And sees you the same as before
When you lay beside me every night
Though now you are with me no more

I can still see the hem of your dress
And the comb as it's parting your hair
And the person I held is still there in my
Lazy eye that looks at you and sees you
The same as before