Nobody Asked the Baby

Yesterday I turned two months old and reached a firm conclusion:

this wonderful life they advertise is mostly an illusion.

The grown-ups look at me, sigh softly, then cheerfully say:

— Oh, what a lovely life! No worries and no bills to pay!

It’s true, I pay no bills. On that, we can agree.

But there are other kinds of debts that life keeps charging me.

They come in forms like waiting, helplessness, and frustration,

and most are overdue before they understand my explanation.

For starters, I need someone just to wipe my little rear.

Think about that level of dependence, ladies and gentlemen, dear.

I make a poop and have to wait for someone to detect it,

carry me to the changing table, open up, inspect it.

They take off all my clothes and enter my private space,

without permission, warning, or the slightest hint of grace.

We’ve barely even met.

And privacy is not the only price I have to pay.

I also hear their judgments while I lie there on display:

— Wow, that is a lot of poop!

— What in the world is that smell?

— It looks a little greener today.

— It seems more liquid as well.

— Do you think this is normal?

They study color, quantity, texture, shape, and odor,

as though I handed in an essay to a very strict professor.

Sometimes they even call another person to the scene:

— Come over here and look at this!

Apparently, my poop must be seen.

Just look at my humiliation and complete lack of discretion:

I do what every human does and become the family discussion.

When an adult does it, no one gathers around to evaluate.

When I do it, every relative arrives to speculate.

Soon they’ll start a group chat just to talk about my poo

and appoint a moderator to keep track of who said who.

After that, I have to trust they’ll clean me properly and right,

put the diaper where it belongs and not fasten it too tight.

I try to warn them when a fold or waistband feels unbearable,

but no one understands my message. The whole thing is regrettable.

I can express myself.

I cry with great conviction.

The trouble is that everybody offers their own interpretation.

Sometimes I am crying because I want a cuddle and protection,

but someone brings a bottle as the obvious correction.

I turn my face away.

I push the nipple with my tongue.

I make my strongest angry face, though I am very young.

I use every signal I possess to show my opposition,

but someone looks at me and makes the confident decision:

— She must be hungry.

I am not hungry. That is not what I request.

I only want to hear a heartbeat while I’m resting on a chest.

I want an arm around me, keeping danger far away.

I want to know I’m not alone in this enormous world all day.

Everything is bright, too cold, too loud, too fast, too strange.

Help! I’m only two months old. Is comfort such a massive change?

Other times, I truly am quite hungry and need feeding.

I cry, wave both my arms, close my fists, and start my pleading.

I search for milk in every place with obvious agitation,

but someone watches me for two brief seconds and declares the explanation:

— I think it’s colic.

And then the drops arrive, presented as salvation.

Those drops land in my mouth with such a bitter, shocking flavor.

The first one makes me pause and test this unexpected behavior.

I move it with my tongue and try to understand the taste.

Before I reach a verdict, there’s another drop in haste.

I sample it again.

I test it left and right.

I roll it through my mouth and study every bitter bite.

Then one more drop arrives to further the experiment,

and I remain completely focused on this strange development.

While I am processing the flavor, I forget my hungry plea.

They have not solved the problem; they have simply distracted me.

A few short minutes pass, and I grow quiet from surprise.

That is all the proof the grown-ups need to certify their lies:

— See? It really was the colic! Look, the medicine is working!

It wasn’t.

I am still just hungry.

The original problem is still lurking.

Their theory makes no sense, but everyone enjoys the celebration.

Now I’m hungry with a bitter taste as my consolation.

Congratulations to all involved in this outstanding investigation!

You missed the problem completely and still applauded the solution.

When I truly have the colic, life is not much easier.

My belly hurts, I twist around, and every cry grows fiercer.

I turn red.

I stretch my legs.

I push with dedication.

And suddenly the household starts a major operation.

First they offer milk.

Then they offer me a cuddle.

Then they lie me down.

Then lift me from the muddle.

Then they rock me to the right.

Then they rock me to the left.

Then they stop as if the pain has suddenly packed up and left.

Then they loosen up my diaper.

Then they press upon my belly.

Then they pedal both my legs as if I’m training for the rally.

By that point I cry much louder, overwhelmed and sore,

because besides the stomach pain, they will not stop anymore.

They turn me, lift me, bounce me, press me, stretch me in rotation,

while the drops that might distract me vanish from the operation.

When it isn’t colic, bitter drops arrive with speed.

When it truly is the colic, no one thinks of what I need.

As I keep on crying, there is even more commotion.

They try another cuddle, another angle, another motion.

And in the middle of that chaos, with my aching little spot,

I think: that is a lot of action for one hurting little tot.

— People, now that it is really colic, will nobody bring the drops, no?

I also cannot fall asleep just when I choose to rest.

I have to wait until somebody reads the clues I manifest.

I cannot scratch the tiny place that suddenly begins to itch.

I can only wave my whole small body, hoping someone gets the switch.

I cannot shift my own position when something feels misplaced.

I simply grunt until a grown-up puts my body back in place.

I cannot grab a blanket when the chilly air arrives.

And when I start to overheat, I cannot strip to save my life.

Sometimes someone gazes at me, thoroughly enchanted:

— Oh, isn’t she beautiful!

Yes, ma’am, but do not take this princess life for granted.

I am sweating buckets underneath this tiny suit,

and somehow no one has perceived this very basic truth.

While everybody praises my sweet face and perfect little nose,

I am quietly being cooked inside these lovely clothes.

And as though all of that were not sufficient for confusion,

sometimes a hand appears right in the middle of my vision.

I stare at it with wonder, starting my investigation:

— Whose hand is that?

It sweeps across my eyes, hits my forehead, then departs.

Later it returns again, without a plan, a map, or charts.

Sometimes I catch the mysterious hand and place it in my mouth.

It looks delicious, so I taste it from the north side to the south.

I suck it.

I test it.

I wait for some reward.

No milk appears, no hunger fades.

A very overrated product, overall.

Being a baby means inhabiting a body I cannot command,

surrounded by people who love me but rarely understand.

And they do try.

They truly try.

They study every motion.

They watch my hands, my mouth, my eyes, my legs, and every notion.

They debate if it is hunger, colic, diaper, cold, or heat,

or whether I just want some quiet love and somewhere safe and sweet.

It looks like an emergency meeting summoned by my crying.

Everyone presents a theory, a protocol, and evidence they’re applying.

They do not always get it right the first time.

Nor the second.

Sometimes not the third.

But they continue searching for the meaning of each word.

Perhaps that is what makes my life a little less alarming:

I still cannot speak, but I am never left without someone caring.

I still cannot say “Mommy.”

I cannot say “Daddy.”

I cannot say, “I’m hungry,” or, “My belly feels quite badly.”

I cannot say, “This outfit’s hot,” or, “My diaper is too tight.”

Or, “Please put down the bitter drops; that is not the problem tonight.”

But they stay.

Though they cannot understand me, they do not walk away.

They remain beside me through the night and through the day.

When I’m hungry, someone carefully prepares my milk to drink.

When I’m dirty, someone changes me before I even blink.

When I’m hurting, someone tries to find the painful part.

When I’m frightened, someone holds me close against a steady heart.

So despite the helplessness, confusion, and commotion,

I know I am a lucky baby, wrapped in love and devotion.

Even so, I must confess: I cannot wait to grow.

There are so many things I want to learn and want to know.

I want to walk, to open up the fridge and choose my food.

But most of all, I want to talk.

That would greatly improve the mood.

I could finally explain my needs without a scream or shout:

— It’s hunger, not the colic. Put the medicine away.

My diaper is too tight, and now I want a cuddle, if I may.

In that order, please. No bicycle, no conference today.

But they say that when I’m older, I may look behind and sigh:

— Oh, to be a baby once again, beneath that watchful eye…

Perhaps it will be true.

Perhaps I’ll miss such dedication,

someone watching every movement, every breath, and every indication.

Perhaps I’ll miss the person crossing through the dark and weary night

because one tiny little whimper told them something wasn’t right.

Perhaps I’ll miss being carried, guarded, cherished, and adored,

even when the thing I tried to say was completely misexplored.

But for now, I stand quite firmly by my first determination:

being a baby is not easy.

That concludes my declaration.

Now, excuse me.

Sleep has finally arrived.

I’m about to start crying.

Place your bets.

The night shift is live.