I remember going to a support group meeting led by my now awesome friend, Tracy and her hubby, Rob, and putting Jory in the daycare in the room next to where the adults would be meeting. I worried once the door would close, Jory would need me or cry for me and I wouldn't hear him. How would I know Jory in the sea of babies and toddlers that were being watched by babysitters?
Thirty minutes or so into the meeting, I hear this cry and I know that's Jory. I knew my baby's cry. So this first time mother quickly walked out of the meeting room and picked up her one-year-old and calmed him down. I tried to give him back to the babysitter once he was calm, but he was having none of it. So I grabbed his baby bag and took him inside the meeting with me.
Why didn't I think I would know his cry? Did I think his cry would get drowned out by the other babies crying? Did I think all babies' cries sounded the same? I don't know. But I do know as soon as he started crying, I thought, that's Jory. My baby is crying and I need to get to him now.
Even now with three, I know their different cries. In my head, I can hear the different ways, the unique inflections in their voices when they say, "Mommy."
And as I know them, they know me. "Oma, Mommy's home."
"She's not here, yet," I can hear my mom telling them.
Then feet race toward me. Layla's high pitched squeal of "Mommy." Jory's giggly "Mommy." And Rowan's calmer "Mommy." They know the sound of my car. They know when their mommy is walking through the door, and when she's on the phone.
They know my cry, like I know theirs. And in a crowd full of people we would know and find each other cause we know each other.
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