There were years when I never put my baby sling away. It was either looped around me, or I had just laid the baby down still wrapped inside, or it took a station break on the back of the couch. But there was never a reason to put it away, as in a drawer.

Those days are a sacred memory, blurry around the edges.

Yet last week I slung one across my back and nestled a baby in its soft hammock. Not my baby. Someone else's baby.

The weighty lump felt delightfully familiar, and my hands slipped without coaxing into the pat, pat, pat that became as second nature as the whispered monologue.

"Such a sweetheart... Mama loves you... Let's go for a walk..."

Holding a baby. Is there anything more dear? Well, if you have held that child for six consecutive hours putting her down could be a relief.

But if it's been awhile the sensation of malleable warmth is marvelous.

I'm still a mite confused about the all or nothing of it. For twenty four years I had a child or two that was too vulnerable to leave alone while I dashed into the store for bread. Now I have all the leisure I need to be choosy about bananas or linger at the fabric store deciding between aqua or teal batik.

Why the inequity?

Perhaps the whole lopsided scenario is to lure people like me, whose laps are empty, to show up at the thresholds of women whose arms are tired.