Baby Get Back
In Other News...
I received photos this week from a friend who recently had a new baby. Well, not photos, but a link to a page of electronic images. We are living in the New Millennium, after all. (In contrast to the New Jerusalem, which is New York City, according to Carly Simon.) And I suppose "a new baby" is redundant. Babies are, by their very nature, new, are they not?
What amazed me about these photos is not how beautiful the baby is (All babies are beautiful. First Law of Civilization. That's why we don't eat them.), but that I could not tear my eyes away. I looked through the set, and then looked through it again. And then again. I was like a forensic scientist, searching for some overlooked clue. The proud papa had sent an earlier set, several days prior, in which the infant looked like Zippy the Pinhead with mottled flesh and a balloon animal tied to his umbilical stump. I was somewhat less fascinated by those pix, but still had to look through them several times.
The notion of my ogling baby photos is only a surprise if, say, you know me. My take on children has always been somewhat Fieldsian. ("Do you like children?" "I do if they're properly cooked.") I'm still no fan of the ragamuffins once they reach the age of ten or so, unless they are extraordinarily well behaved, and in general find the combination of children and enclosed places (public transportation, restaurants, grade school) a rather explosive mix. But in recent years my friends have begun to reproduce, and my attitude toward their offspring, and children in general, has changed,
"Mellowed" is the word that would spring immediately mind, were it not egregiously incorrect. In some ways I may have mellowed, but in most I am more cranky then ever before. I have not softened in my attitude toward children; I am as active as ever, but in the opposite direction. I am captivated by them. I allow them to climb on me like Good Dog Carl. I read to them and play with them gleefully. I hoist them into the air until I am exhausted. (Granted, this doesn't take long.) I am like one of those portly grandmothers who threaten to devour them. None of this is very pretty.
And the children sense this. They fling themselves at me - frequently pummeling me with their toys - until their parents are forced to pull them away for everybody's safety.
One friend says this comes as no surprise to him. As he explains it, "Children are so out there. And so are you." Take that as you will. Granted, I am likely to be the loudest person in the room who is not a child. And I have more toys in my house than any childless man in his 40s ought. And I do revel in offering the children somewhat anarchistic suggestions, just to see what they will do.
But while that may explain why they take to me, it doesn't explain why I have suddenly taken to them. It may be a result of the fact that I am unlikely to ever have any of my own. Playing with other peoples' children is like renting: I get the benefit of a home with little of the expense and none of the upkeep. Small children share certain characteristics with pets: they offer unconditional love, with the added advantage of eventually being able to use the toilet on their own. I may be facing my own mortality, and seeking a new generation to ease me into my grave. And like those hungry hungry grandmas, I may be seeking to leech, vampire like, off the fresh blood and endless energy of the young.
Mmm, childlicious.
In any case, I'll be the middle aged guy you see looking through the Gunds for the perfect pick. Or rifling through the shelves at Women & Children First, tossing aside volumes that don't live up to my standards. This is my second - or possibly fourth - childhood, after all. If I want to play with toys, who's going to stop me?
I received photos this week from a friend who recently had a new baby. Well, not photos, but a link to a page of electronic images. We are living in the New Millennium, after all. (In contrast to the New Jerusalem, which is New York City, according to Carly Simon.) And I suppose "a new baby" is redundant. Babies are, by their very nature, new, are they not?
What amazed me about these photos is not how beautiful the baby is (All babies are beautiful. First Law of Civilization. That's why we don't eat them.), but that I could not tear my eyes away. I looked through the set, and then looked through it again. And then again. I was like a forensic scientist, searching for some overlooked clue. The proud papa had sent an earlier set, several days prior, in which the infant looked like Zippy the Pinhead with mottled flesh and a balloon animal tied to his umbilical stump. I was somewhat less fascinated by those pix, but still had to look through them several times.
The notion of my ogling baby photos is only a surprise if, say, you know me. My take on children has always been somewhat Fieldsian. ("Do you like children?" "I do if they're properly cooked.") I'm still no fan of the ragamuffins once they reach the age of ten or so, unless they are extraordinarily well behaved, and in general find the combination of children and enclosed places (public transportation, restaurants, grade school) a rather explosive mix. But in recent years my friends have begun to reproduce, and my attitude toward their offspring, and children in general, has changed,
"Mellowed" is the word that would spring immediately mind, were it not egregiously incorrect. In some ways I may have mellowed, but in most I am more cranky then ever before. I have not softened in my attitude toward children; I am as active as ever, but in the opposite direction. I am captivated by them. I allow them to climb on me like Good Dog Carl. I read to them and play with them gleefully. I hoist them into the air until I am exhausted. (Granted, this doesn't take long.) I am like one of those portly grandmothers who threaten to devour them. None of this is very pretty.
And the children sense this. They fling themselves at me - frequently pummeling me with their toys - until their parents are forced to pull them away for everybody's safety.
One friend says this comes as no surprise to him. As he explains it, "Children are so out there. And so are you." Take that as you will. Granted, I am likely to be the loudest person in the room who is not a child. And I have more toys in my house than any childless man in his 40s ought. And I do revel in offering the children somewhat anarchistic suggestions, just to see what they will do.
But while that may explain why they take to me, it doesn't explain why I have suddenly taken to them. It may be a result of the fact that I am unlikely to ever have any of my own. Playing with other peoples' children is like renting: I get the benefit of a home with little of the expense and none of the upkeep. Small children share certain characteristics with pets: they offer unconditional love, with the added advantage of eventually being able to use the toilet on their own. I may be facing my own mortality, and seeking a new generation to ease me into my grave. And like those hungry hungry grandmas, I may be seeking to leech, vampire like, off the fresh blood and endless energy of the young.
Mmm, childlicious.
In any case, I'll be the middle aged guy you see looking through the Gunds for the perfect pick. Or rifling through the shelves at Women & Children First, tossing aside volumes that don't live up to my standards. This is my second - or possibly fourth - childhood, after all. If I want to play with toys, who's going to stop me?
posted by John Bliss at
9:00 AM
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