Theories about Babies
Only less than six months ago, I finally became a father. It's a humbling experience, as, oh about trillions of people have learned before me. People have always said that having a baby is difficult because
a) The baby comes without instructions.
a) The baby comes without instructions.
b) You can't give it back.
c) You don't get paid for the new job you've just added.
I agree partially with these statements, but I think the truth is much simpler than that: the baby says, you do. This is not comparable to one of these instances where your wife tells you to put the toilet lid down and you argue and tango and breakdance for hours until the status quo has or has not been retained.
It's easy to tell off your better half or your friend. Yes, dear, I'll take the trash out in ten minutes. The baby's orders are clearer than that. Bring me my food ASAP, which means NOW. If my cat bitches and whines about not getting any food, I'll chase her around the house for a few laps until it finally dawns on her that the side door is open and she can escape. Can't do that with a baby. Until further notice (like a few years), you are the baby's biatch.
It's easy to tell off your better half or your friend. Yes, dear, I'll take the trash out in ten minutes. The baby's orders are clearer than that. Bring me my food ASAP, which means NOW. If my cat bitches and whines about not getting any food, I'll chase her around the house for a few laps until it finally dawns on her that the side door is open and she can escape. Can't do that with a baby. Until further notice (like a few years), you are the baby's biatch.
I have also heard about people talking about the love they feel once they see the baby come out. Sounds cute, and I don't deny it's true that for some the Brass sector of the orchestra is right there in the delivery room and playing itself into a frenzy, a dizzying crescendo that ends with the first cry of the baby. Sorry partner, not here. First and foremost, I was concerned about my wife's well-being. I took one look at my son, ordered the nurse to carry him away, and to take care of my wife. Later, of course, I drooled over him like any dad would.
At the risk of sounding callous and undeserving of the title human being, I also can't say that I immediately loved my son, unconditionally, the way his mom did. That took a little longer. In between, I felt like punting him into the Jordan River at least once a day when all of my attempts to still him failed miserably.
I remember a colleague telling me, "Think of sleep as a hobby from now on." Amen to that. Often I would wake up, grouchy, ready to torch the baby's crib if I heard so much as a suckle on his fingers from him. Again, no such luck, unless you want to trade your pinstripes for an orange jumpsuit and go from being the baby's bitch to the bitch of a hundred or so felons, not to mention the death penalty your wife will personally perform on you if she ever gets her hands on you. Sometimes, I wanted to run outside, throw my hands up and yell until the imaginary strait jacket ripped in several places and became a long spool of thread the cat could toy with.
Now I have a better idea, following a friend's advice, a guy who is soon to become a father himself for the first time: play along, be his bitch, accept the rules... and plot for revenge.
What will that look like? Your son feeding you one day at your deathbed or at a nursing home? No such luck. And even if you should have created the rarest of species who believes that the parents who took care of you should in turn be taken care of, you really don't have to wait that long. I believe you have to wait until he's about ten or so, is fully aware of who you are, is long removed from communicating with coos and cahs and by now knows the value of a good night's sleep.
So here's the plan: set your alarm clock for two a.m., burst into his room, turn on the light and yell for the whole world to hear:
At the risk of sounding callous and undeserving of the title human being, I also can't say that I immediately loved my son, unconditionally, the way his mom did. That took a little longer. In between, I felt like punting him into the Jordan River at least once a day when all of my attempts to still him failed miserably.
I remember a colleague telling me, "Think of sleep as a hobby from now on." Amen to that. Often I would wake up, grouchy, ready to torch the baby's crib if I heard so much as a suckle on his fingers from him. Again, no such luck, unless you want to trade your pinstripes for an orange jumpsuit and go from being the baby's bitch to the bitch of a hundred or so felons, not to mention the death penalty your wife will personally perform on you if she ever gets her hands on you. Sometimes, I wanted to run outside, throw my hands up and yell until the imaginary strait jacket ripped in several places and became a long spool of thread the cat could toy with.
Now I have a better idea, following a friend's advice, a guy who is soon to become a father himself for the first time: play along, be his bitch, accept the rules... and plot for revenge.
What will that look like? Your son feeding you one day at your deathbed or at a nursing home? No such luck. And even if you should have created the rarest of species who believes that the parents who took care of you should in turn be taken care of, you really don't have to wait that long. I believe you have to wait until he's about ten or so, is fully aware of who you are, is long removed from communicating with coos and cahs and by now knows the value of a good night's sleep.
So here's the plan: set your alarm clock for two a.m., burst into his room, turn on the light and yell for the whole world to hear:
"Remember that?! That doesn't strike you as quite so funny now, does it? Now bring me my %@#&* damn food!!!"
Of course, chances are that that imaginary strait jacket will become more of a reality after you've explained to him and his mother what your motives were.
Then there are the inner thoughts of babies. I have discussed this time and again with my wife and friends. They claim that his mind is still a simple one, that he yearns for his next bottle of milk and a peaceful nap in his mother's bossom.
Sorry, but I again respectfully disagree. I compare my boy to Stewie, the bête noir of the animated sitcom 'Family Guy'. In this show, Stewie has two clear objectives: matricide and world domination. In my son's case, I can safely cancel out the former; peanut butter and jelly couldn't be a more formidable match than my wife and my son. As for the world domination part, it is absolutely true.
Thinking about his next bottle? Bush! He's thinking about razing a village! Do you actually believe he's enjoying his newly found freedom in that walker you just bought for him? Again no! This is the first step in mobility that will eventually culminate in his mastering not a bicycle, but something less subtle, like a tank. Our baby has a slight chuckle before he goes to sleep. I guess we will never know what that means, but I have a theory. How about the burning of Rome, the sequel, playing in this kid's head? Theories abound as to what babies may be thinking but I guess we will never know, since the baby himself won't remember a damn thing and conveniently plead the fifth later in life.
Sorry, but I again respectfully disagree. I compare my boy to Stewie, the bête noir of the animated sitcom 'Family Guy'. In this show, Stewie has two clear objectives: matricide and world domination. In my son's case, I can safely cancel out the former; peanut butter and jelly couldn't be a more formidable match than my wife and my son. As for the world domination part, it is absolutely true.
Thinking about his next bottle? Bush! He's thinking about razing a village! Do you actually believe he's enjoying his newly found freedom in that walker you just bought for him? Again no! This is the first step in mobility that will eventually culminate in his mastering not a bicycle, but something less subtle, like a tank. Our baby has a slight chuckle before he goes to sleep. I guess we will never know what that means, but I have a theory. How about the burning of Rome, the sequel, playing in this kid's head? Theories abound as to what babies may be thinking but I guess we will never know, since the baby himself won't remember a damn thing and conveniently plead the fifth later in life.
I am happy to say that at nearly six months, this kid is actually becoming fun. I still sense a trouble maker somewhere. Wonder where he got that from.
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