Saturday, August 17, 2013
Reproduced Organisms
I babysat my one-year-old nephew last night. He was so good, as in happy, and responsive to the things I said to him. You know you have a baby being raised well on your hands when they prefer things like strawberries and tomatoes to Cheerios or cheese. He has gorgeous locks of brown hair and those big brown doe eyes with lashes that could sweep a windshield. He’s one of those few babies who can flip the mommy hormone switch in me. You know, the one that provokes you to crawl around on the floor on your hands and knees, and makes you want to purr, and coo, and reproduce (But later. Actually, never. It’s a dirty trick). It gives you superhuman strength, nerves to calm a terrorist, and that persistent snuggle behavior. That’s how they can destroy in ten minutes the house that took three adults a half day to clean, and you’re still a little sad to see them go.
It’s incredible the damage babies can do. You bring them treasures from the attic--a case of cars, a couple of little men with bendable appendages for them to maul, and some pop-up books to eat, and they still insist on emptying your kitchen cabinets, tearing down your morning glory vines, pissing off the cat so bad that he pees on your shoes in the closet in retaliation, and smearing one cheesy macaroni noodle across every square inch of the four-foot glass coffee table. And I would do it all over again without a second thought if today I did not feel like I had been raked over with a lawnmower. You know, the old-fashioned gas-less kind that turn with the wheels.
Much love to his parents and all parents for raising those beautiful babies!
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