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When Christopher was born gorgeous gifts came from everywhere acknowledging his birth.
Elaborate sterling silver spoons and cups engraved with all four of his initials. Some sent heirlooms in the making, lovingly crocheted blankets that I still have. There were two personalized baby quilts with his birth date and name; one from Auntie Martha, another from Grams. They are packed away and every so often I peek. And remember.
Wonderful outfits with matching socks and sweaters in delicious periwinkle blues. I played dress up with my real life doll. OshKosh B'Gosh coveralls and colorful tees. Don't grow too fast, Boy. This is so much fun. Little red Keds. Caps and hats, toys and furry, pop-out books. Boxes came for months in infant pastel papers with matching baby bows.
Except for one.
One box, contents long forgotten, was decorated with a tangle of curled ribbons pooled into a rainbow that spilled from its lid. It didn't telegraph, “Delicate baby item inside.” It shouted, "Joy! Joy! Joy! You are about to have the time of your life! Celebrate unrestrained!"
That which I felt seemed piled high atop a wrapped gift box, and just as in my heart, bounced, tumbled, and sprang in every direction.
And since then I have so wrapped all my newborn gifts.
For Barbara A. Baylson