My life is rated PG-13; my temperament is not suitable for children under the age of 13. I determined this fact shortly after graduating that status, at age 17, when the first of my 15 cousins to procreate introduced their new baby at a family party. Within a few hours my life’s vision moved out of the suburban house and into a downtown high-rise apartment. Of course the live birth and c-section videos they subjected us to in health class had already nudged my stone rolling in that direction, but I reserved faith in science to solve Eve’s curse for us. I figured by the time I felt adult enough to assume the responsibility we would have the option of gestating in nice sanitary pods where both parents can comfortably watch their progeny’s progress in a virtual womb behind glass, all environmentally stable and nutrient controlled, equipped with an alarm that activates upon any evidence of imbalance.
Physical aversion aside, at 17, I still noted down the names I imagined vesting on someone someday, and I eagerly anticipated meeting my first second cousin. Though we span a generation in age, my cousins managed to forge camaraderie through the common headaches of our parents, and the circumstances of annually assembling for jovial events like weddings and reunions. I looked forward to handing the next generation a Long Island iced tea in an innocent enough soda cup, just as my older cousins lovingly corrupted me.
I remember us all dawdling in my aunt’s foyer that day, a dozen of us cousins, our moms/aunts, our dads/uncles, talking about our travels and lives since the last family event. And then It arrived, and carved a chasm through the room. When I completed the story that I had broken off to give reverence to their entrance, I discovered a strange expression on my cousins’ face, and my uncles’, and my brother’s, and only then realized that I stood alone amongst males. We had all received my cousin and her new baby with equal exuberance, cuteness and kisses all around, and then my aunt offered to carry something, and my mom went to fetch the rest from the car with another cousin in tow, and my sister followed the others to the living room where my aunt was setting up some contraption on the floor, and through all this I had resumed my story to its completion. The men who stood before me nodded and sipped their drinks. Then one asked another about a business matter, another brought up the most recent football game, and I stood awkwardly listening, unsure of what had changed.
On the other side of the divide, the women hovered with smiles of anticipation, all waiting for the baby’s gaze. The mother proudly described the minute details of her day including, but not limited to, washing, feeding and napping, mundane things that the others insatiably demanded more information on. Our moms gave advice, our cousins asked questions, everybody fought over who got the privilege of holding the baby next. And when it burped, an uproar of glee broke out amongst all in the circle, where I had sulked to out of loneliness, annexed as I was from the men I had considered my friends just moments ago. Only hours later, after everyone waved bye-bye to the bundle and the door closed behind them, all the women’s voices scaled down a few octaves and the world returned to normal. But in the meantime I had witnessed something that never occurred to me when younger, the mind-altering effect a child has on rational adults.
Baby Moseses part the room by gender. Women, led by instinct, follow its every move. Higher brain function halts, clearing the way for only baby-pertinent wisdom to leach through, paired with silly faces and babbling nonsense. This behavior naturally repulses the men in the room, who gather together defensively, speaking only of testosterone-charged topics, for fear that any female sentimentality will woo them to consider committing to what they will later feel a moral duty not to regret.
I have been granted a wealth of time to reflect upon the cause of this change while sitting on the edge of one or the other of these conversations with absolutely nothing to contribute. I blame hormones for The Change, hormones that I somehow lack. At 17, having just entered the adult arena, I envied my cousins with their own apartments and careers, cousins who gave it away to goo-goo on the floor and wipe the poop off someone else’s butt. The fact that someone might make this conscious decision baffled me. I began hating babies by default. Not the baby themselves, but the effect they radiated around them, like a good friend’s possessive significant other.
They share many similarities: Your friend modifies their behavior around them, certain topics of discussion become taboo, and they give up all their hopes and dreams to satisfy the constant demands of this leech whose selfish needs won’t allow them to go out to one stinking happy hour.
Anyone who has lost a loved one to a possessive relationship, an addiction, or parenthood, can describe the dejection felt when spending time with this person who, though still technically alive, now exists as a slave to the burden they herald as their life’s purpose.
Babies have some positive features. They do look cute, they can’t talk back, they eat practically anything you can make mushy, and they attract admiration from almost everyone. A parent becomes a celebrity in passerbys’ eyes just for pushing the stroller. These facts should not blunt the reality that babies are dangerous.
The cuter the baby, the more likely for baby age fixation syndrome. No need to consult the psychology journals for this definition. I coined the term to describe the mental condition that freezes a child as a baby in the parent’s mind. With baby age fixation syndrome, the child escapes blame and consequences because the parent will always excuse their ignorance, and the parent escapes the more difficult responsiblity of disciplining their bundle of joy by denying altogether that their child could be capable of any calculated wrongdoing, therefore absolving any need for corrective measures.
As a bullying ‘victim’ back in the days when adults considered such trials a rite of passage, I harbor few illusions of children as inherently innocent. After watching adored babies turn into terrible toddlers, playground pants-ers, bratty tweens, coddled college drop-outs and eventually, that co-worker who surfs the internet while delegating all their unwanted tasks, I began to follow the natural progression that somehow goes unnoticed by many parents. Babies age, they become children and then adults, but not all adults are grown-ups, and grown children tend to expect the rest of the world to carry on the pampering that their parents set by example.
These grown children act irresponsibly and expect others to repair the mess they leave behind; They simultaneously vote for more government services and lower taxes; They accuse others of selfishness or greed when asked to share, help, or pay their portion of such petty things such as the rent or the premium cable bill they insisted you subscribe to; They do not ask for things, but instead demand them with an expectation that it will be granted, and if refused, they request an exception be made in their case, when in fact they are not the exception but the reason why the rule was made in the first place.
Only the parenting skills of responsible people vested with the discipline to tug on their own heartstrings can counteract the worst forces of human nature that exist in all of us. I knew quite young that I lacked not only the hormones, but the time and patience necessary to achieve this task. Children need to learn the traits of civilization from someone far more tolerant to their transgressions than I. And with that realization, I locked the door to the suburban house and threw the key in the river.