A DAY WITH AARON

Michael and Phyllis came to see me as a last resort
when their daytime baby-sitter quit without giving notice.
"Oscar, we're desperate," Michael said.
"We know how much you love Aaron ," Phyllis added eagerly."
" It's only for eight hours," they said in unison.
"What are good friends for," I said, kicking myself under the kitchen table.

We passed smiles all around, very much like dealing cards. I forced a kind of a smile. Phyllis sat down and wrote out a list a mile long, detailing every move I had to take in caring for their one and only.
I kicked myself under the table once more, only harder this time.

I felt weak at the knees the following morning as I climbed the stairs leading to the spacious house on Oceanview Ave.

For the next eight hours I would be, for the first time in my 35 year old history, in sole charge of a living human being who happened to be a bouncing 25 pound baby boy, some 9 months old.

Aaron was not exactly new to me. I'd played with him, held him, even changed his diaper gingerly, under supervision ... once.

Michael had already left for the day. Phyllis hastily downed a cup of coffee and was off after rehashing, in abbreviated form, the written instructions of the night before.

I was alone with twenty-five pounds of trusting baby in my arms.
Aaron knew that adults existed for the sole purpose of entertaining and caring for him. I faced the day with new resolve, determined I would not take a back seat to women on the home front.

Aaron snuggled into me, his body a dead weight in my arms. I staggered through the house. He became heavier when his head began pointing to the floor. "Straighten up me boy, you're killing me," I implored. Aaron ignored me.

Aaron continued his inspection, his gaze never faltering. "But what do you see down there?" I asked. "Glug, glug." he said,
and gave me one of his Mona Lisa smiles. This guy is a reverse periscope, scanning the ocean floor, I muttered as I went through the house, pointing out various things of interest on the walls, shelves and floor areas.

Before my arms completely gave out I managed to place hm in his low-chair while I prepared his formula for the day. I followed instructions to the letter. Aaron's mouth began to drool, his Pavlonian instincts now fully aroused. I stuck a bread stick in his mouth and completed my preparations with a bow and a flourish.
Aaron clapped his hands, ever ready for nourishment.

He lay in the crook of my arms as I sat on the living room sofa. Powerful jaw muscles tore at the nipple with a frenzy. The contents went down to zero in a matter of seconds, or so it seemed. "What a piggy you are," I said smilingly. He replied with a spendid burp. I was jealous. Babes could burp and be congratulated for it, while only censorious looks awaited the adult who tried it in company.

I stood up, eased him over my shoulder, and patted his back once more to ferret out burps that may be lying in wait; none followed, he seemed satisfied with his first explosion.

While strolling through the house I noticed his nine month old eyes sort of glazing over. His face gew very still, his cheeks reddened, and he grunted several times. It was a red alert. A poo poo platter was on the way. I galloped into his room in the rear of the house, laid him down on the dresser top change area, and prepared to hold my breath for the duration. It was a crucial test, one that would separate the men from the boys.

Aaron giggled. He'd made his deposit and now it was fun time. As I gingerly removed his diaper, he moved suddenly and managed to spread the good news all around.

"The water, where's the water," I was babbling by now. My eyes roamed the small room feverishly. Ah, there it is," I cried. It was right in front of me. Holding my ward with one hand, I unscrewed the oversized thermos with the other, no easy task.

"My gawd it's empty," I gasped. Aaron said, "Wah, bah," his eyes full of smiles.

My armpits were now awash with perspiration. "What to do, what to do?" I cried out loud. Aaron caught the look on my face, thought it was funny and howled with laughter. I was his comic for the day -- his court jester.

I did the only thing I could do under the circumstances. I wrapped him in a half dozen diapers and carried him at arm's length to the bathroom. In the tub I soaped and rinsed all of his chubby folds and crevices. "Kaka has gone with the wind," I said triumphantly.

He answered with mighty splashes and succeeded in drenching me from head to toe. He stopped to throw me one of his enigmatic stares and waited for me to react. I yelled on cue. This of course brought on more splashing. I wrapped him in towels and carried him towards his room, stepping only long enough to give Aaron the chance to look into the hall mirror, a never ending treat for our narcissist. He was fascinated by his likeness. "Woo," he said, as he smiled toothlessly at the mirror.

i tap-danced into his room "Fred Astaire beware," I puffed. Aaron's laugh was loud and spontaneous. It was music to my ears. For such an appreciative audience I could dance on. I did.

I put a happy boy in his carriage while I cleaned the rest of the mess. As I worked, I grew more appreciative of mothers the world over. Their love seemed to be able to conquor all, give them extraordinary strength and stamina.

I began dressing him on the dresser top. "Ah let's see, you'll need an undershirt and something to go over it." As I spoke, I crouched, my left arm restraining the bouncer, while my right groped desperately for the required items in the drawers to the right of the 'operating' center. My arms were just not long enough. I was gaining more respect for mothers by the minute.

I tried another tack. I balanced him on my knees while searcing for the items. My knees weren't doing too well. I managed to capture all the necessary clothes before they gave out completely.

Dressing him was akin to dressing a mobile pretzel -- his body moved simultaneously in all directons, an impossible feat. Just how do women do it, I mused. We men are so much stronger, aren't we?

My arms were slowly being pulled from their sockets.
"You're a very strong young man," I panted. As if to demonstrate this, he playfully reached for my mouth and practically tore my lip off.

I applied a half dozen face tissues to the wound. "Ha, ha," I laughed. "It's nothing, just a little dip in my lip." I threw him a warm look to show I bore him no ill will.

The battle was finally over. I won in three falls. The mauler of Oakland was dressed, snug in his carriage, and noisily sucking away on his pacifier as we strolled down College Avenue.

Aaron considered the carriage as his personal conveyance. In it, he was kingpin, a grand surveyer of the outdoor scene. His head seemed to be mounted on ball bearings, demonstrated by the easy way he turned hither and yon.

Women stared at Aaron and then at me. Their eyes and lips smiled. What was the message? It was obvous. Babies, especially chubby ones, healthy and good-looking to boot, serve as catylists in bringing out motherhood instincts. The baby pusher, the baby, and the carriage, are all safe, accepted symbols of life and the perpetuation of the species. Most men do not participate in this ritual, the majority not having the experience of giving birth.

Older women, veterans of the baby world, did more than smile. Their experience gave them license to exercise fuller liberties.
They stopped the carriage and began one-sided conversations. "Kootcy-kootchy-koo they simpered. This was territory they were familiar with and they were determined to elicit some response from the bewildered victim lying prisoner in his carriage. They tried clucking, they tried pinching his cheeks, they tried blowing on his face and they even tried talking real English. Aaron was not having any of this and turned his face away.

Competing baby pushers plied me with questions. I was ready.

"How old is he?" they asked. "Three months old," I lied without blinking an eyelash. "My gawd." they gasped as their mouths flew open. I shrugged modestly.
"He's very big for his age," they gulped.
I bore down. "It's the weightlifting," I explained, before moving on. I left a group of bewildered mothers talking among themselves.

As we were about to pass a bakery shop on College Ave., my charge pointed again and again. Was this a regular stop for our growing boy? I soon found out that it was. We were greeted warmly by the owner who told me that this was his baguette stop five day's weekly. We shared a fresh, hot, crusty baguette, smacking our lips in unison.

Bolstered by this satisfing interlude, we marched to a park some ten minutes away. By the time we came to it, Aaron and I were palsy, walsy. I talked, he listened, giving up the floor without hesitation.

"Look at all that green grass growing so quietly, and smelling so sweetly," I said. i inhaled deeply and louldy. He saw the game at once and followed my lead, drawing in little gulps of air -- a born mimic.

There were a grove of tall trees ahead. "See those stately trees, those venerable plants, growing ever so fat and sentinal tall, pleasure your eyes on their beauty, let your hands caress the skin of these healthy specimens." The words flew by him, but the even softness of the delivery soothed him. He eyed me approvingly.

I steered the carriage close to one of the biggest trees, stroked the bark, and waited for Aaron's reaction. He decided not to rush things. Tentative exploration with eyes fastened on the section of the tree immediately before him. His eyes then climbed the plant expertly, before a probing finger gently touched the tree to test its temperature, texture and relative safety.

Satisfied no enemy lurked there, both his hands shot out and began stroking the tree while looking at me slyly, watching for my reaction or approval. I smiled, thus assured, he began a gentle tapping. The tree was a friend, a plaything. He finally sat back triumphantly, while I applauded. He followed suit and soon we were both applauding each other. "You have gladdened this aged beauty with your youth and gentle attentions," I said with a wink and a smile. "Onward, ever onward my stalwart," I commanded.

Two nuns came toward us from the Chabot Ave. entrance to the park. I leaned down to whisper, "They will smile benignly when they come abreast of us. People in the religion business take courses in politeness and benign smiles".

As the sisters hove to, Aaron put on his Mona Lisa smile. They were enchanted. Their eyes danced religiously and they smiled benignly. I smiled back as benignly as I could, not having had real practice in the art.

We began our Chabot Avenue ascent. Many streets and avenues in the "Bay" area will simply not lay flat for very long. They start to rise at the first opportunity. Chabot was no exception. It rose ever upward.

We passed gardens featuring sculptured evergreens that reminded me of French poodles -- ghastly. I lean toward trees that grow with untamed abandon. Homes became more elaborate, more expensive looking, the higher we climbed. It seems the rich like to take to higher ground in case of floods.

We headed for the Chabot Canyon Racquet Club, the very one that Aaron's mother was a member of. "This is terrific exercise." I gasped, as we climbed the steepest section of the avenue. There was no answer. Our hero's eyes were shut tight, his face in repose. "You are beautiful," I whispered.

That last stretch seemed harder than ever. I had no more gasps
to spare when I finally reached the tennis courts. Aaron slept on, completely unaware of any tennis activity going on. I longed to join them. Only three things held me back. I was not a member, I was not dressed for tennis, and I could not leave my charge unattended. The sun was not overly strong, gentled by cool breezes -- perfect tennis weather.

We started our return journey. Half way home our hero moved, his body going through a slow, deliberate stretch. This was followed by frantic arm waving. Sounds were added to his repertoire of movement ... small mewing sounds, growing more and more distinct. I accelerated into third gear and then into fourth.

His mewing grew into full-growing cries. I stopped the carriage and kneeled before him. "Aaron my pet, Aaron my precious," I pleaded, "Please indulge me, at least until we reach home.
He only cried harder. I stroked his chest. His arms shot out and I was trapped. Who could resist this supplication, this trust. Once in my arms, all was quiet on the western front. It was as if a door had suddenly been closed on a noisy party.

I carried him with my right arm and pushed the carriage with my left. Back and forth went Aaron, from one arm to another. My arms were turning to lead. My face must have mirrored my agony. Men and women were casting sympathetic looks my way. Great drops of perspiration ran down my face. I was a mess.

"Aaron, you are a very heavy guy," I moaned as i staggered on. His body danced in my arms as if in response. "Not the best response old boy," I muttered.

i tried putting him back in the carriage. He was not up to leaving the comfort zone. My burden was mine to carry. After much groaning, gasping, and gritting of teeth, I arrived at the corner of College and Oceanview -- almost home but not quite. Oceanview did not offer a view of the ocean. It did offer a view of a hill going straight up. There was a little over half a block to traverse. Could I make it?

I slowly, laboriously, climbed the 'view' ... not my view of a refreshing climb. The house had stairs, too many. Aaron took my theatrical grunts and groans as attempts at clowning, and possibly they were. My fan roared with laughter. It was contagious. We fell in a heap on the soft living room floor and laughed our guts out.

The wonderful thing about pain and discomfort are the rewards that follow their cessation. My body floated as we lay rocking with laughter that knew no ending. We squeezed the last drop of laughter out of our bodies and were off to the kitchen and feeding time after a quick stop in the 'change' room for some dry clothes.

He ate with obvious delight, his mouth opening in Pavlovian response every time the spoon neared it. In quick order he downed a banana, cereal, half a tomato, some cottage cheese, and a bread stick. A gourmond was our Aaron, and I was delivering gourmet baby-sitting. I gave myself a ten. I cleaned him up with a paper towel. "Pat, pat, pat and that's that," said the towel.

Was it laughter time again? Why not. I moved my shoulders and made google eyes at him. It was enough. He exploded.
No half measures. I worked my shoulders until they were sore, his laughter, incentive enough.

It was time for his dessert --his bottle of course. He attacked it with a vengenace as I cradled him. What a feeling -- this little tyke depended on me -- gaining sustenance, warmth and safety in the nest of my arms. My heart turned over.

He purred as he drank -- his legs and toes moving ecstatically as he clutched the bottle securely in his arms. he was in heaven and I was his current angel.

Into his room for a diaper change. He was soaked. I know some mothers leave their children marinating in their diapers before bothering to change them. Not so this 'mother'.

I laid him gently on his change table but Aaron was not having
any of that. I want to be held, his lusty cries seemed to be saying. A possible tenor or baritone, I mused. I couldn't help but admire his face for a second or two as it contorted so piteousloy, so beautifullly, before I took action.

Three toys later, his tears stopped magically and he gave me a wide, toothless smile -- not one cavity. I deftly threw his heavy wet diaper into the disposal bucket, laved him with a soft washcloth, patted him dry, and applied cream around his buttocks and into his many folds. Aaron cooed all through this.
In a few minutes he was clean, dry, warm and fully dressed for indoor fun and games. I was learning fast.

His playpen was large and roomy. I surrounded him with cushions and toys and sat down with the morning paper to read and rest.

I was just beginning to enoy my favorite columnist when our 'playboy' keeled over in the playpen. Although not yet into the crawling stage, he somehow managed to move about in the most imaginitive way -- back flips, forward half somersaults, and sly side movements. A repertoire all his own.

Finally, he managed to lay there immobilized, very much like a turtle on his back. He did not panic, simply waited for me to right him. I left my seat and my favorite writer and set him up again.

This happened several times in the next few minutes. I tried lying him on his tummy. He didn't care for that. I introduced more toys. He through them out. He was having fun at my expense. My break was broken.

I placed him on his 'Jolly Jumper' and he began energetically jumping up and down and somehow, sideways. I hurriedly checked the calipers fastened to the frame of the door and was assured of his security.

There he was, my plump captive, harnessed, hanging partially in space, the springs of the apparatus allowing him to touch the floor and every part of his face was alive with smiles. Little shouts of pure joy escaped him. He seemed tireless -- a dynamo on springs.

I rolled one of his balls to him. "Kick it," I shouted. He kicked it the length of the room. More kicks, more shouts, more delicious smiles followed. He was prepared to play the game all day but I wasn't. He had more energy than I had. I hugged him, he hugged back. He smelled as fresh as a baby, it was a good smell.

I needed a rest. I released him and we both lay down on a blanket I placed on the floor. He managed, in his peculiar crab-like way. to reach my face. He sat down on it.

"One last bit of play before puttng you bed," I spluttered. I began pedaling my legs in a fast circular motion while laying on my back. He howled as I pedaled faster. He howled louder. He was enjoying it so much that I didn't have the heart to stop. I gave him a full ten minutes of this, collecting and savoring all of his laughter.

It was time for his afternoon nap. I consulted my notes. There were no directions on how to put the little guy to bed. I was on my own. I was determined to innovate because I needed my rest desperately.

I placed him in his crib, gave him a pacifier, and spoke ever so softly to him. My deep baritone voice caressed his ears. His eyes started to flutter and he half rose before falling back and was asleep within seconds.

I had three hours to myself, but from time to time I tip-toed into is room to watch him sleep. Is there anything more angelic, more beautiful, than a sleeping baby? They sleep very much like they play -- all out.

He was immediatelly awake the moment he arose and shouted for attention. I found hm holding on to the side of his bed, fully alert and ready for action. His eyes lit up when he saw my oustretched arms.

Another walk was called for, but first a diaper change. I was able to do this without fuss or bother and we were out and away in minutes.

More smiles from mothers and would-be-mothers. Aaron was the light that drew them in like moths. i was simply an appendage. Nevertheless, I basked in his popularity.

Twice I was mistaken for his father. I hesitated before conceding that I was not. It was a compliment, considering the extreme handsomeness of my charge.

We came abreast of an icecream emporiom. The sign boasted, "the best vanilla in the bay area". "One vanilla in a container please", I ordered. "Aaron and I want to vote on it". I added with a smile. The clerk didn't crack a smile. "She doesn't get it", I said, turning to Aaron.

Mmm, Mmm,Mmm, and Mmm," I rhapsodied as the cold delicacy paraded over my tongue and onto my palate. It was no doubt, a very, very exciting concoction. "My partner and I are ice cream tasting specialists," I declared, turning to our host. There was a beginning of a smile. The smile broadened when I added, "He's really on the wagon but I think he might go off just this once".

Aaron's face turned somersaults as the dessert found his taste buds. He made a grab for the spoon. I was faster. "Just one moment my fine feathered friend, remember you're on the wagon," I cautioned. I hastily spooned in more of the dessert. We took turns finishing it off.

We walked on to the "Adventure Center, a travel agency specializing in trips to Australia and New zealand. there were stuffed Kaola bears and boomerangs in the window.
Aaron was intrigued. He pointed and spoke his secret language.
"Did you know, you could leave Oakland one day and arrive there yesterday or is it the other way around?" Aaron shrugged, no traveler he. We paraded up and down College Street. It was retail land. Stores predominated. Restaurants and bars there were a'plenty. Americans are the snackiest snackers, their mouths well exercized around anything that smelled good.

There were at least four antique furniture stores selling furniture of the twenties, thirties and forties, at inflated prices. Maybe that is why there did not seem to be any customers shelling out dollars.

A massage parlor and hot tub combo advertised in vain. Not a soul could be seen inside. Beauty factories and hair clipping shops used other people's heads to make money. A half a dozen stores specialized in remaining closed. Their show windows still showing some scattered goods.
Were the owners just teasing us? Was this part of College turning into a mini ghost town?

Two flower shops were in the 'scenter' of the area. They competed with two outside stall entrepreneurs who defiantly set up shop nearby. Four 'scents' did not make sense at all I sensed.

Menswear, ladiesware, childswear, pregnantwear, shoeware and noveltywear shops vied for attention, all kind of wearing us down.
We needed a diversion and it came in the shape of a pasta shop
displaying, and producing pasta by the yard in living color.
We stood outside and gawked unahamedly.

Once in the store we were trapped into buying one or more of a thousand delicacies begging for attention. I bought one of those and one of that and one of these and one of the other ones near the bright-looking one that Aaron pointed out to me. We chewed in unison. Life was good.

We left College, our Street, and onto the Park, our Orchard.
"Onto the orchard." I cried, and on we went. Fifteen minutes later the orchaard opened its gates and we strode in, nature lovers to the core. We admired the flowers that grew in orderly and wild profusion, the colors competing for attention. I hoped Aaron would not ask me to name any of them. Names of flowers, plants, trees, birds in general, escape me. But isn't a rose by any other name , still a rose? We took deep satisfying breaths.

We decided to stop at the school playground off Chabot Ave. This one was completely unconventional. There were giant tires waitng for kiddies to crawl through or sprawl on.
Fat trees stumps at varying heights joined together, inviting all to sit on them, to climb them or simply stand and admire them.
Colorful sand boxes begged for pails and shovels or busy hands to
sift through the grains of sand. Wood catwalks dared adventurers to 'Walk the Plank". Slides that twisted and turned asked for experienced sliders, those with a slide degree.

We played hide-and-seek -- a favorite game of my playmate. We zoomed down the slide -- "Whee, whee," we sang ot in pure, unadulterated joy. We walked the Plank as ordered by Captain Bligh; Jump said the Captain. We jumped and landed on dry sand. "Saved, we're saved," I cried. Laugh a minute Aaron laughed uproariously.

When we had exhausted ourselves as well as the apparatus, it was time to say good-bye. Home James," I said with an exaggerated English accent.

We recessed under the Bart trellis on College and Keith. It was nice and shady and the benches were inviting and welcoming.
A cool place to cool down and observe the passing parade, a parade of ordinary people. We observed and were observed in turn.

I busied myself with making our sight-see-er comfortable when we got home. I was becomng a quick-change artist. His wet diaper was removed with a flourish, followed by a dry rubdown.
Vaseline was applied to the rashes around his buttocks. A dry diaper stood at attention while Aaron gently slipped into it.
Rubber pants came next and a fresh undershirt. A few little bits and ends, and voila. A hausfrau couldn't have done it better.
I held out my arms and Aaron leaped into them.

His midday meal started with a bottle. I placed the bottle in a pot of water to warm up. As soon as Aaron spotted it I knew I was in for anxiety cries. His mouth screwed up in anguish and his arms began waving frantically. His demanding cries became more insistent with each passing second.

"Diversion, diversion," I cried and rushed him out to the front balcony. Reaching up, I pushed the chimes suspended from the ceiling. His crying stopped at once. He was enthralled and I believe I could see his ears open up as he reached for the magic above. His famous smile emerged and my heart turned over. Not an easy task.

As usual he needed no prompting during mealtime. A gourmond of a gourmet was Aaron. My watch read 2:30 P.M. I decided to give him thirty minutes of playtime before taking him out for his last walk of the day.

His playpen seemed to work this time around. He was not falling all over the place. He chirped happily as he went at his toys with a vengeance. I managed to catch up with the news of the day, do some writing, and even took in a little television. I even managed to prepare and eat a sandwich.

We sortied out once more. He was asleep before I turned the corner. "Pleasant dreams dear boy," I said out loud. Two women trned around and smled broadly. I smled back. Aaron slept on, a soft smile on his angelc face, brightning the day.

At 6 P.M. I was ready. My charge had been aired three times, slept a total of some four hours, downed three nourishing meals, been diaper changed at least five times, bathed, played with, and treated royally throughout the day. I was exhausted but he was happy, sated, neat and sanitary.

Phyllis walked in, her eyes sending love as she saw Aaron in his chair. "How did it go?" she asked. "Nothing could of been easier," I said brightly.

I drove home in a happy daze. This bachelor had been a mother for a day and enjoyed it.