Everyone knows I don’t like kids; babies in particular. While everyone else says “oh look at that baby, they’re so cute,” I’m trying to find out who the World Series MVP was in 1973 (Reggie Jackson of Oakland). Maybe it’s because I was the youngest of a small family and was never exposed to babies, but I find them fat, bald, and unattractive. They’re the Dick Cheney’s of the adolescent world. I’ve met two cute babies, and both of them are family.
My lack of exposure to babies has led me to be about as comfortable as a Mormon in a tattoo shop while holding, talking to, or talking about them. This fact is well known among my friends at the gym, several of whom recently had kids, and so I get tortured on a semi-regular basis with soiled diapers, spit-up stories, and conversations about who the best circumcision doctor is.
These same friends decided it would be a fantastic idea to let me feed the baby. My first thought was to call child services for letting parents trust me with the feeding and nourishing of their baby, however, as I have come to understand through various pages on the internet, that is not illegal nor is it grounds for a civil suit. I was stuck. The mother handed me her newborn and panic and terror coursed through my body. It was the moment of truth.
I immediately changed my mind. Babies had become the greatest thing since the invention of the Snuggie. He looked me right in the eyes and we immediately had a connection. He saw into my soul and knew that I would protect him for the rest of his life. He was a perfect little angel and so cute!
This is what most people would say.
Feeding a baby is the biggest pain in the world. First he doesn’t want the bottle, then he does want it, then he wants to squirm somewhere else, now he he’s trying to hold the bottle himself. Just sit still and let me put this milk in your face, kid.
After about five minutes of him sucking down formula, he was about a quarter of the way done. I looked across the gym to where his mother was running through class; “is he doing ok?” she called. “How in the Hell should I know?” I replied (for the record, there were several more expletives within this conversation. I have omitted them for the sake of polite society).
After several more minutes of trying to keep the bottle in his mouth, the wee baby decided it was time to fill his diaper. While it has always been a dream of mine to eat while tending to Nature’s call, I was not in the mood for such efficiency from a baby sitting in my lap. Luckily, his father had finished his workout and took his son out of my arms. As payback, I neglected to tell him it was time to change the baby.
When asked how the feeding session went, my reply was simply that the kid didn’t die while I was feeding him and no one posted a picture of said feeding on Facebook, so overall I considered it a victory.
Though the experience ended well, I’m hopeful the future will bring no more such experiences to my door. Babies, in all they’re infinite victories, are still Dick Cheney on an infinitesimal level.