By Jeffrey Page

I sit on a small footstool and gaze into her perfect little face as she rocks to and fro in a small indoor swing. She makes a little sound that reminds me of a sigh. I tell myself she’s content, at peace. I’m mesmerized – and can’t recall the last time I used that word – as I watch her eyes move right, left, and up and down, taking everything in, seeming to want to know things, to know everything.

Sometimes, when she’s in the crib, she does a baby thing; shakes her arms and flails her legs, and looks like a little bird about to take off. And I am delighted. But now she just gazes at anything that catches her fancy. She is 4 months old.

As I watch her take in a little of the world, I think of her mother when she was 7 asking me to take her to see “Annie” and my successful resistance. Now, so many years later, I wish I could live it again, pick up the phone, and buy the best seats in the house. Can’t be done, so I make a quiet oath that can be heard only by God, the baby and myself: If this granddaughter should ask for something that doesn’t interest me, I shall comply. Such compliance, I think, is listed among the requisites for good grandfatherhood, which I will strive to practice. Even if in seven years or so she asks me to take her to a revival of “Annie.”

Grandchildren are a second chance to get things right.

The little girl before me stops her bird imitation and her hands fall into her lap. She cries. Not the loudest, but with just enough gusto to capture your attention. Diaper? Hunger? A need to burp? Maybe boredom and a wish for a little walk around the house while being bounced slightly in my arms. I know she likes that. But then I notice that the pacifier she was happily sucking a second ago has fallen out of her mouth. I put it back, she gets to work.

Sitting here in front of her, I move a little to my right and she follows me with her dark blue eyes. Wait, did she just do what I thought she did? Was that recognition of me or just an awareness of movement? Of course I now move to my left, back to the first position, and she follows me again. I bend down and kiss her cheek, which, I’ve been surprised to discover, is not smooth as silk, but far smoother than mere silk. In mid-kiss, I’m aware of that sweet baby smell.

The indisputable truth, I tell her, is that she’s beautiful, that she’s cute, that she is a miracle, that I can’t wait until she speaks so we can talk about stuff or maybe just take in a matinee of “Annie.”

I tell her, “I want to hear what you have to say because, clearly, you are one smart little kid.” I make a funny face, and – the grandfather’s reward – she smiles and kicks the air.

People seem to get a little gaga over grandchildren. I try not to. Did you ever listen to otherwise serious people speak to a baby in that happy, squeaky little voice adults reserve for infants? Before she was born, I swore I would never do that, that I would take her more seriously than that. The funny thing is that when I tell her how smart and how beautiful she is, I do it in that happy, squeaky little voice adults reserve for infants.

Then I get my voice back, pick her up, and walk around the living room like a sergeant-major on parade and singing “The Grand Old Duke of York” with accompanying bounces. She likes that. She gives me another smile when I get to the line about the Duke’s 10,000 men being neither up nor down. Then I sing “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.” She likes that, too.

I think it was my daughter who first noticed that adults seem to say everything twice when it comes to talking to a baby. I knew I would never fall for that sort of nonsense, and had you been there, you would have heard me say in a deliberately raspy, allegedly funny tone, “You are a very special little girl; yes you are, and I love you.” And had you stayed another six seconds you would have heard me follow that with “You are a very special little girl; yes you are, and I love you.” Maybe I’m just a little gaga.

I put her back in the swing and give it a gentle push. In a minute or so, I see her eyes close, and then she’s fast asleep. I sit here on the footstool watching her go back and forth, watching her little right hand resting on her left wrist. I rub the back of my index finger gently across her cheek. I kiss her head.

She is magic. Her presence in a room improves the room. Her very existence improves the world. Other grandfathers say the same thing about their children’s children. And you know? They’re right, too.