Why I Like Babies Better Than YouSerge Bielanko
It doesn’t matter much to me whether my wife gives birth to a boy or a girl.
It never has, really. And it’s not that I’m some kind of wonderfully adjusted, free-thinking citizen of the universe who is open to whatever the cosmos delivers me just so that I can convince myself that I am an awesome person, because I am not an awesome person.
I am an a-hole.
Even though I find most adults to be goofball puppets controlled by strings that dangle from the fingertips of a deity much more crafty/sly/and pissed off than any kind of God you could possibly ever dream up, I still unequivocally have really liked almost every kid I’ve had the good fortune to cross paths with.
It’s no secret that kids are better people than us adults.**
(** Teenagers are not included in this whole deal of course, because they are all hopped up on poisonous lust and dumb-dumb music and they’re texting videos of themselves twerking out into cyberspace and thus they are neither as wise as young kids nor as blindly immature as grown-ups.)
Kids fight and complain about things that actually deserve a bit of tear work or a sock to the arm. If you take away a kid’s bouncy ball or if you happen to be playing with a bouncy ball that some kid kind of wishes that they were playing with now that they see you enjoying it, why wouldn’t that poor lad or lass break down into a fit of sudden weeping?
Why the hell wouldn’t that kid bite down on their bottom lip and come at you with a powder-puff roundhouse, right?!
See, I understand why kids act nuts at least 70% of the time; their wires aren’t all soldered together yet and they are genuinely humanly hurt or curious or hungry or bored for 98% of their day.
Big over-sized jealous frustrated deep-fried adults on the other hand are a complete mystery to me.
Aren’t they to you? Aren’t you continually shocked and amazed (to the point of kicking your own dropped jaw around with those stinky weird flip-flops that you insist on wearing) by just how ludicrous and lame that you and me are?
Think about it: Tiny cool souls get jammed into foot-long skeletons and pushed down that magical chute from deep outer space. They land in a quivering heap of wild uncertainty and beautiful open-mindedness. These babies we have, and all the ones before us, they all seem made of marzipan and funnel cake sugar, huh? And when they get here, all soft and doe-eyed, they’re born pooping out the only world they’ve ever known up until now and they’re about as violent or vicious or vindictive as a lump of melted marshmallow.
I mean, truth be told, when you pick these kids up at the Arrivals terminal, admit it: they’re pretty much perfect.
And they stay that way for a while too.
All the flinging toys across the room, all of the pissing all over the sheets and the Golden Books, all of that endless crying throughout the night, all of that stuff that we tend to think of the fundamental challenges of parenthood are all actually the purest, most perfect behaviors known to mankind. But we adults don’t like to think that way. We like to bitch and complain.
We have been battered down to our very nubs by so much living, so much life. I don’t care how advanced you think you are either. I’ve been around, I’ve tasted all of the watered-down booze. Even you top-shelf yoga peeps and masters of reality, you’re still all fifty times more jaded than a 6 month old.
Or a 6 year old.
It isn’t necessarily our own fault, I guess. We do it to each other. We’re meaner than desperate snakes. We’re all lonely and scared and disappointed and greedy inside and we spend damn near every second of our adult lives denying all of that to the point where our own individual realities, the way we each see ourselves/ the way we each think others see us, is so far from the truth that it’s just easier for us to live a chain of lies for decades on end.
It’s exhausting just thinking about it, isn’t it?
I think that’s why I recognize the serious awesomeness of babies and kids though, you know? All of their insanity, all of their emotional hurricanes that whip up from the sidewalk in the flash of an instant, they all make much more sense to me than anything we adults do because these kids, they are constantly really trying to find the best way through all of the tears and the hurt and the confusion that life starts pouring down on them from the moment they are born into this world.
And that’s a beautiful thing. Until they are 13 or 14, I guess.
Then, like it or not, we get to them. Our grown-up ways, our big doses of ‘maturity’ come splashing down on them like buckets of hot cow piss, the kind of omnishambles that stink forever and never goes away. So, whatever. I love life. It is what it is. And I can’t wait until I meet this new one sometime in March of next year because… boy/girl…I could honestly care less.
Just as long as it’s a kid, a baby, you know?
And just as long as he or she arrives down here crying and smiling for all of the rightest reasons in the world.
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