Someone Should Tell You About Babies

Okay, I'll do it.

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I’m getting to that age where people are no longer asking me when I’m going to have babies; they’re asking why I don’t have babies. 

So, I don’t know if anyone has ever told you about babies. 

But let me tell you about babies. 

I know what you’re thinking—you’re thinking: what does this guy know about babies? He just said he doesn’t have a baby.

But, hear me out, cause, for my 30th birthday, a lot of people decided to have babies. It wasn’t what I asked for, but apparently, they’re hard to return. That’s the most important thing you should know about babies. They’re like half-eaten sandwiches.

It’s just yours now. 

My brother was one of these people who decided to get themselves a baby for my birthday. It’s whatever—I’m over it. Now—here’s the problem: his baby is fuck-off cute. They had a one-year anniversary of having that baby this year, and all the other babies who went to the party were like, “Yo, that’s a cute baby.”

Or did whatever babies do to validate each other. Stress vomit, maybe. I don’t know that much about babies, okay?

But—I had a crisis. I remember the exact moment. We were sitting around having a family lunch with my brother, his wife, and their half-eaten sandwich. After finishing the meal—this little con artist roped us into a game where she’d throw her arms up, and then we’d all do the same—shouting: “Yay!” Each time until—after about six rounds, I had a horrifying thought: 

Hey, wait, should I have one of those?

It was a weak moment—and thank God—she shit her pants.

But I can’t lie and say it didn’t rattle me. Thankfully, soon after, I met a baby who reminded me of the second most important thing you need to know about babies.

Some babies are doomed.

What do I mean by doomed? I mean that some babies are hideous. 

Not many! Or even most. Don’t get me wrong here—I’m not a monster. Seventy percent of babies could go either way. The cutest baby can make an ugly adult, and a meh baby could become a supermodel.  

But then there is that thirty percent—the doomed babies. They’re fucked.

For example—a family friend once had a doomed baby. It looked like if John Goodman had a peanut allergy. 

And then it just fucking rained peanuts.

I remember standing over that baby and saying, ‘Woooooow! That’s…that’s a baby!’ 

And the baby’s mother gave me this look like “…and…”

And I saw it, right there in her eyes — she knew her baby was doomed. She hadn’t quite accepted it — but she knew it, and all she wanted was for me to confirm that her baby didn’t look like an aborted donkey. 

And I just couldn’t.

But that baby was a Gerber compared to the baby I met on the airplane on my way back to Korea. 

That baby didn’t look like an asphyxiated John Goodman — it looked like that mandrake root from Harry Potter.

But pale.

I mean, deathly pale.

Vampires can’t have babies, but if a vampire did have a baby, it’d look like this baby, and people would look at it and go, “See, that’s why vampires shouldn’t have babies.”

So, I saw this baby on an airplane with its mother. I won’t comment on the mother’s appearance — I think it’s fine to make fun of babies. But not full humans. They have feelings.

Well — so the mom was a human. The baby was living proof that if reincarnation exists, we don’t get a choice. And it cried.

That’s another thing you should know about them, by the way. They cry. 

And—now here’s the odd part—the mother would wail every time the baby cried. Really loud. And at first, I thought: what the fuck—Is this some new hippie parenting technique?!  But then I realized that if I had that baby—only to then discover it was also loud! I’d cry, too. And when I realized that, I began to hear the pain in her voice. She was wailing: “WUUHHHHHH,” but what she was really saying was, “Oh God! I have such an ugly baby.”

Okay — so you might be asking yourself at this point, Did he write this whole thing just to make jokes about some poor innocent baby that annoyed him on an airplane?

And, well, yeah — kinda.

Okay, but no — that’s not the only reason this baby stuck out in my mind. I mean, I’ve seen ugly babies before and haven’t publicly made fun of them. Privately, sure, every last one. But publicly? I do have shame — it’s around here somewhere…I could’ve sworn I left it riiight over…

huh.

No—I bring all of this up for one simple reason. 

The pope is an asshole. 

Hear me out.

If you didn’t know, the pope recently went and told everyone that choosing pets over babies is selfish and diminishing our humanity. I was able to handle the baby-badgering from friends and family–but the pope?

And I think — I could be wrong, but — I think the pope has never met this baby I saw on the airplane. 

Probably. It makes sense, right? Babies don’t live that long. They do that Pokémon thing where they turn into children. Oh, that’s another thing you should know about babies. They turn into children. (I need to do more research on children and don’t want to make any claims, but I think—I think—they absorb your humanity.)

But—see—if the pope had seen this baby, I think he’d understand. Because you get to choose your pet, and you don’t have to push it out of your vagina. Oh–yeah, that’s another thing you should know about babies. They hurt vaginas. Vaginas are beautiful. Not cool.

So, if you want a dog, you go to the store, and you’re like, “Yeah, that dog is cute. Give me that one.” 

And you don’t have to ruin your body, waste your youth, develop an anxiety disorder, or spend a fortune on a dog.

 You’ve just gotta be like, “Hey —you’re a dog.” 

“Do dog stuff.”

And–most importantly–it doesn’t cry and annoy other passengers on transatlantic flights.

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If you did not think this was funny and think I am a horrible person for writing it, then I am truly — from the bottom of my heart — sorry…

…about your hideous baby.

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Where you can find my work this month:

• Three Poems Sponsored By My Seasonal Depression in Maudlin House

• Huggerlovers in Sky Island Journal

• Inside the Last Cinnamon Raisin Bagel in Jersey Devil Press (coming soon)

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