The Baby on the Bus

The bus went along the road, dum-de-dum, full of big people going to big places.

And somewhere near the middle sat a baby, on its mama’s lap.

The baby was crying.

Waaah, cried the baby. Waaah, waaah!

The big people looked at their phones. The big people looked out the windows. The big people did big-people frowns, the kind that say oh dear, oh dear, but don’t do anything at all.

The baby’s mama patted and rocked and shushed. But the crying had gotten too big for the baby, the way crying does, and it just kept coming. Waaah!

Now — two seats away sat Nia. Nia was little. And little people know things about crying that big people forget.

Nia knew crying is lonely.

Nia knew you can’t fix lonely by looking away.

So Nia kneeled up on her seat, held on tight, and looked right at the baby. The baby looked back, mid-cry, hiccupping.

Nia waved. A small wave. Hello, you.

The baby hiccupped. Watching.

Nia put her hands over her face. The bus went dum-de-dum. And then —

“Peekaboo!”

The baby blinked.

Hands up. Wait for it. “Peekaboo!”

The baby’s mouth wobbled — wobbled — and fell right open into a giggle. A wet, surprised, hiccupy giggle, the kind that chases the crying straight out.

“Peekaboo!” Giggle! “Peekaboo!” GIGGLE!

And all around them, the big people looked up from their phones and their windows — because a baby’s giggle is very loud in the best way — and everyone was suddenly smiling at everyone, the whole bus, all the way to the back.

“Thank you,” said the baby’s mama to Nia. “You knew just what was needed.”

Nia did know. It isn’t hard to know.

Somebody crying mostly needs somebody to come closer — not further away.

Even on a bus. Even if all you’ve got is two hands and a boo.