“'More More More,' Said The Baby” by Vera B. Williams

One of the great joys of parenting is it makes you dance more often. Put a baby in my arms, punch “Scatman” into Spotify, and let’s jam. But I’m no longer allowed to pick up just one kid and dance -- now I must dance with two. That’s 70 pounds of giggles I’m juggling, and I can only do it for so long. We last a song if we’re lucky. But when I put everybody down, J, my 1.5-year-old, looks up at me, puts her fingers together in a sign, and squawks, “maar, maar!”

DJ, pon de replay.

“‘More More More,’ Said the Baby” by Vera B. Williams is a book about J’s request and how good it feels to grab a baby and spin her around. It’s a story in three parts, but it’s barely a story. There are three babies, three caretakers, and three moments of bliss. Each part of the triptych features the same pattern: a grown-up runs after a kid, scoops them in the air, admires a body part -- belly button, toes, eyes -- and brings them up close for a snuggle. The toddler coos for more, more, more and the cycle begins anew.

That’s it! But it’s not about the narrative. It’s about the vernacular used to tell it: “But Little Guy’s daddy catches that baby up all right. He throws that baby high and swings that baby all around.” It’s about the expressive illustration -- roughly painted but with clear and cheerful faces -- and the rainbow font. It’s about the universality of this kind of physical love, across three stories with kids and caretakers of different races, ages, and parenting styles. It doesn’t matter who you are; the chase, the lift, and the giggle are a part of all of our vocabularies.

As my kids get older -- and heavier -- I’ve been thinking a lot about how our physical play is changing. For years I’ve lifted them off the ground, flipped them over my shoulder and walked around with sacks of potatoes. I’ve let a toddler walk on my supine body hundreds of times while I scream, “GODZILLA BABYYYYYY,” as if I’m some redshirt about to get trampled in a monster movie. And I’ve given shoulder rides all over town, making peace with my future spinal surgeries because it means it won’t take 30 minutes to get to the subway.

But now the kids are bigger. N, my 4.5-year-old, hasn’t been Godzilla for years. (Physically, at least. But temperamentally…) And J has a habit of pulverizing my clavicle whenever I put her up top. As my kids grow more complicated, so do the ways I play with them. That’s an opportunity, but it’s also a loss. The “More More More” kind of play is so fulfilling in part because it is so pure. Saying, “I’m gonna get youuuuuuuuu….” and then sprinting after a toddler works every time.

Parenting is a palimpsest. As we write new stories with our kids, the old ones fade. The old memories never leave the manuscript, per se, but they’re not as visible as they once were. Yet they’re there, lurking in the shadows, adding texture to the new material. I can’t race 4.5-year-old N down the block without evoking a similar scramble to catch her in the living room three years prior. 

Sometimes, though, you just have to play the hits. The other day N and I were walking home from our final Macaron Wednesday date at the coffee shop, and her legs just didn’t have it. Forget it, I said, let’s dance. I scooped, I lifted, I plopped. She was up on my shoulders and she was giggling. 

“More, more, more,” said the kid. “More, more, more,” said the adult.

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Vera B. Williams’s obituary is full of incredible nuggets. A father who mysteriously disappeared! A dedication to championing marginalized voices when that wasn’t commercially popular! A month spent in jail for protesting the Pentagon! Sounds like the ideal person to meet at a party and pepper with questions for an hour.

Somebody gave us “‘More More More,’ Said the Baby” but that person is lost to history. Thank you to whoever you are. The book makes a great gift for friends with a new baby. If you want to buy it, here’s one opportunity to do so. But there are many other ways to get it if you’d rather not give me a 10 percent commission.

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