BabiesThey aren’t much to look at when they first pop out or the hatch; looking more like they’ve gone five rounds with a slime monster than anything you’ld feel comfortable showing your family. This is patently unfair considering how large slime monsters are and how little a new-born is. I said so at dinner last night.
“Hah!” I was told. “Little?!? 8 Lbs 12 oz and 9 Lbs 8 Oz? I’ld like to see you pop out something that size!”
Though certain (disturbing) responses did occur to me, I kept my mouth shut until she assured me that women would be perfectly happy should babies emerge the size of a mouse and spend the rest of the gestation period in a pouch.
Naturally, (in the interest of peace making) I offered to make two lout-sized pouches with which to secure them until such time as they matriculate from medical school or marry an heiress, whichever comes first. Then we can present them with a bill and retire to the Seychelles.
I can tell from the bruising that I must have said something wrong, but back to the subject at hand.
I admit to being fascinated with babies. Not only are they unlikely to borrow one's truck without asking, then leave it parked carelessly in a river, but they are nature’s perfect little garbage disposals. In fact, if one could permanently plumb the effluent end into one’s drains, one’s kitchen waste dilemmas would be permanently sorted.
There is a whole industry devoted to this. Food items that no self-respecting adult would eat (I know, I’ve tried) are pureed, coloured, place in tiny little jars and sold for about the non-narcotic portion of Bolivia’s GDP.
I spent yesterday afternoon shoveling this goop into Mandy, our overworked accountant’s one year old daughter.
“Do you want the purple goop, the orange or the green?” I asked.
“Agrubbel-shmurf!” She replied, chubby fingers grabbing at my beard.
“Right! All three it is then!” and spent the next half hour or so talking like an idiot and shoveling multicoloured goop into a happy maw.
It struck me as being very much like your average management meeting, really.
I’ld cleaned her up a bit just as the Boss-man came out of the conference room.
“Who’s this little beauty?” he said, picking her up and bouncing her.
“A goo-goo-goo!” He said, bouncing her up and down like a fizzy drink in a paint mixer. “Who’s a sweet baby? A goo-goo-goo!”
Now, I’m not normally a fan of Jackson Pollock and his ilk, but I have to admit; that girl’s got talent. Or maybe it was just her choice of an Armani suit as a canvas that appeals so.