Babies are dickheads. They don't mean to be - they poop their pants for heaven's sake, clearly they can't control themselves. But if you dissect a baby's personality, on paper, they're assholes. An adult would never be able to pull off the behavior babies get away with. They're selfish, demanding, inconsiderate, volatile, loud and needy. Imagine a grown man with these qualities - asshole, right? He'd be a complete social outcast. That's why nature made babies look different than adults by giving them different body proportions (their heads are like a quarter of their total body length - imagine if yours was). This visual difference signals our brain that they're not normal people and they don't have reasoning abilities or communication skills yet. It's their defense mechanism. Skunks have skunk spray, babies have bobble heads. It works. It's cute. In fact, even my freak of a ginger baby is completely adorable. Estie can be screaming like a banshee, interrupting something really important like Jersey Shore, but as soon as I pick her up and she looks at me with that huge head, I just melt. She knows it, too. You can tell by the self-satisfied look on her fat little face. Yeah, she says. Mom is my bitch. And I am. I am her bitch. Why am I okay with this? Well, part of it is my motherly moral obligation: she literally can't survive without an adult to tend to her needs. But the other part is nature's sick little joke: I actually love her. Like, more than anything. This jerk - this tiny monster who takes up all my time, spits up in my cleavage and will one day tell me she hates me before slamming her bedroom door in my face and calling her BFF to rant about her idiot mother - is one of the best things that's ever happened to me. And she loves me too, even if she can't articulate it yet. I am, after all, her number one bitch.
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| the queen herself, practicing her voodoo mind control on a stuffed ape |
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