Some babies are cute—but someone has to say this—some are not. Always look out for an unprepossessing baby to be thrust into our lap when least expected. Then the face has to quickly arrange into something approaching maternal or at least polite. Like, hey, good you delivered this, or I would have.
‘Uncute baby’ is no oxymoron, it’s a gene thing, a mutation when nose, chin, toothless gums don’t have time enough to unscramble. An accidental peek into a pram can cause PTSD. ‘What was that?’ we wonder as we briskly walk away, with the pram’s wheels squeaking louder in our ears.
Why do some people labour under the impression that their baby is the cutest thing ever born? Just nature’s way of encouraging the hapless parents to bring it up no matter what. Freud has spoken of women suffering from penis envy (most women have been looking for that woman to cause a bit of bodily harm) and there was a TV ad sometime back which called it ‘neighbour’s envy’—but when it comes to infants the fattest, shortest, pudgiest wins hands down. Size zero is not a thing in baby world.
Direct eye contact with infants is injurious to health. Suddenly, for that one moment, it looks like it knows everything about you. Even your disgust at its existence. You can fool parents into thinking they have produced a mix of Albert Einstein and Marilyn Monroe, but the baby can see right through your apathy. It cares not for you or your beady little eye; in fact, it throws a silent challenge at you: go on, make one yourself, and let’s see if it’s better than me. A raspberry is blown for good effect.
I have marvelled at Jonathan Swift’s digestive capacities when he mentions edible babies in his evocative essay A Modest Proposal. Even as a carnivore, I imagine I would have better taste. The witch did wait for Hansel and Gretel to be almost adolescents before trying to bake them. I’m sorry, Mr Swift, not even a famine will induce me to put them on the menu. Though I have heard grown people with the most formal of appearances suffer a meltdown at the sight of a baby, and the following words being uttered: ‘I could just eat you up!’ The baby, thinking this a joke, gurgles and coos.
There should be training schools for what to say when confronted by a baby. Someone says in a ‘I witnessed a miracle’ voice that they’ve just had one. When going about your day and worrying over two-minute noodles taking three minutes, one is assailed by this abrupt news from nowhere. Suddenly, you have to say something. Trying to match their hysterical excitement you say ‘boy or girl?’ But some morons will beat you to it by saying, ‘we just had a baby boy.’ You quickly improvise with queries about the weight—which the proud father, disturbingly enough, knows—or you ask, more daringly, if it was a normal delivery or C-section. This is when things can go sideways if they start to share medical details above your pay grade. It was touch and go, they may say importantly. Or race their wife’s labour pains against all other labour pains in history. Apparently, hers alone went on and on.
Do not fold under societal pressure to declare all babies cute as a button. Some are buckles and some are zips. Unless your own, it is perfectly okay to be judgy about babies. At no point offer to hold it—their lack of bladder control is legend.
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