All Things Considered
All things considered, it had been quite pleasant waiting in the office. He had been handed a milky cup of tea and cookies had been procured. The three big windows looked out on the play yard and if he sat up straight in his chair and craned his neck, he could keep up with the impromptu cricket match being played. A bell rang somewhere and the children loped back inside, leaving Timothy to sigh and demolish another cookie off the small plate. Why was it taking them so long? After he told Mum about the phone call everything had moved quickly indeed until he had been led here to wait. The kind lady had stepped out and he took advantage of being left on his own to swing his heels into the chair, crack, crack, crack, crack, an activity that would have driven Dad insane and that even would have elicited a stern look from Mum. Crack, crack, crack - he looked up from his swinging feet as he heard the clack of multiple pairs of shoes and murmuring voices in the hall outside.
He felt unaccountably nervous, his hands growing sweaty. The footsteps stopped outside the door and he heard Mum's quiet and musical laugh. His heart sped up as the door opened and he shot up out of his chair. Dad came through and Timothy couldn't see a thing until he stepped aside, further into the bright office. Then, there in the doorway, was Mum whose eyes glinted brighter than usual behind her glasses and who broke into a smile as soon as she saw him. "Timmy," was all she had to say for him to cross the carpet separating them.
He looked down at the squirming baby that she cradled in her arms. He didn't know quite what to say, still feeling nervous and bouncing gently on the balls of his feet. "She looks awfully pink. Should babies be that pink? Carol wasn't that pink," he sputtered after a moment. For an awful instant he thought he had said the wrong thing but then Dad clapped him on the shoulder and Mum smiled her glittering smile again.
"Don't worry Tim, she's just fine."
"Oh Patrick, she's more than fine, she's perfect." Mum's voice sounded watery and Dad's hand on his shoulder had gotten rather tight. He looked into Mum's face and found that she was staring at him in the way that made him feel the best in the world. "Would you like to hold her, Timmy?"
He felt instantly nervous again. The baby was so small and squirmy (and, he admitted to himself again, so pink!), was it a good idea to hold her? He remembered how mad Dad had gotten when he'd broken that vase, what happened if he dropped her? Mum seemed to sense his nervousness and nodded her head back towards the chair he had recently vacated. "Why don't you sit down, dearest, that way it will be easier to hold her." He sat down and she carefully lowered the baby into his arms. "You want to support her head with your elbow, Tim." Dad quietly instructed. Mum gently slid her arms away and just like that he was holding her. She was so warm and heavier than he imagined. She had calmed right down and looked at him with her big blue eyes. They stared at each other, Timothy hardly dared to breathe, lest he break her. She let out a big yawn and stretched her tiny fists into the air, snuffling further into his arms. His eyes didn't leave her but he felt Dad move over to Mum and heard the rustle of their coats as they intertwined their arms. He heard the door open again, and the nice lady came bustling in with papers, saying things to Mum and Dad that he didn't pay attention to. He sensed that the three adults had moved away from them and were doing important adult things but the only thing that he cared to focus on was this tiny person nestled in his arms, his sister.