Home   Home

Baby Fever

by Lauren Singer

At age 9, in what I can only assume
Was a pre-meditated outcry of jealous resolve
Geared towards any one of the cute little cousins, neighbors,
Or peripheral appreciation of tiny fingers and toes in my comfort zone,
I scrawled with gumption, in my Hello Kitty diary complete with
kitty-shaped lock, the following phrase:
I HATE BABIES.

Looking at the page, it is almost a certainty that
The number two pencil with which I wrote
Had to be sharpened and re-sharpened for the appropriate
Level of determination to be conveyed through this scrawl.

Below this defiant declaration in baby hatred I have listed a number of causes.

1. BABIES SMELL
2. BABIES POOP EVERYWHERE. EVERYWHERE!
3. DIAPERS DON’T STOP THE SMELL.
4. BABIES DON’T LISTEN TO THE FUGEES.
5. BABIES DON’T HAVE TEETH.
6. BABIES CAN’T EAT CANDY.
7. BABIES DON’T SHARE.
8. THEY ARE LOUD BECAUSE THEY’RE ALWAYS CRYING.
9. BABIES LOOK LIKE OLD PEOPLE BUT CAN’T EVEN TALK.
10. DOGS ARE BETTER.

As a 30 year old woman I can look at this list and keenly state
That I still whole-heartedly agree with this itemized
Declaration of truth and ill-will towards babies.
Those noxious crying machines of evil, all wrinkle
And passage for sticky goo, all drool and shrill
And no notion of their terrorism. Robotic little vessels
For abhorrent fumes and bodily discharge, puke machines
With shriveled faces all pinchy-toed crab-handed stapler claws,
Steal your glasses and your keys and your phone and call it cute,
Dry heave tit-milk on your lap and name it cootchy-coo,
Can’t be trained, can’t be coddled, wants your wallet
Just to dump out all your change, can’t even crap themselves alone,
Must cling to everything, must respond with “aww” even when disgusted,
Must lie to parents and claim it beautiful, cannot say, “ew”
Cannot let stinky pants accrue, must take care, must give name,
Must grow into bigger human with will of its own with which
It will resent you for the flaws that invested in the life it took to make it.
Must provide for it, must clothe it, must feed it with your own body until
Swollen-bellied tired it flops over on its side and coos with little baby breath
A sleepy sigh and closes eyes for mere minutes before awake again
Screaming persistent that it NEEDS you for baser sustenance and
SHUT UP BABY, MAKE YOUR OWN LUNCH, but babies don’t make lunch
And we all know that this is just a protective
Shell of force because all I ever think about
Twenty-years after my decry against them is
HOW MUCH I WANT A BABY.

WHY HAVE YOU BETRAYED ME, BODY,
Why is it that every time I see a filthy baby
Clinging to the swollen nipple of its mother my own
Boobs start twitching in this sad little empty way like,
Please make milk to feed a tiny being of my genitals’ creation.
Every solid ounce of logic knows that this is gross,
But something in my stupid womb will not shut up.

My list, revised:

1. Babies smell like warm life.
2. Babies poop everywhere, but I would love my baby’s poop.
3. I’d get a diaper service, because I would never let my perfect baby’s butt touch sticky plastic waste.
4. MY baby will listen to the Fugees in the womb and come out prepared.
5. Babies have no teeth because they learn by suckling, it’s beautiful evolution at its finest.
6. My baby will never eat candy because I will never feed my baby corn syrup or hydrogenated oils.
7. My baby will share boundless love and joy with me as its eternal protector.
8. My baby’s cries will be a personal siren song that only I can fix with my maternal devotion.
9. Babies look like perfectly carved pieces of new being and my baby will be untouched marble.
10. I still love dogs.

I did not ask for this. On every level I know
How much I will fuck up my baby, know that I will
Become too needy, have to be the most loved parent,
Must have the prettiest bouncy baby holder,
Must know all the baby rules and become a type-a baby monster.
I know that my baby will grow older, more unruly,
Learn to walk and walk away from me, will become a baby-child
And then a child-tween and then become another replica of me and
I don’t want my meta baby writing declarations of angst about
My future grandchildren in their little plastic journals
With a little plastic lock.

I know the risks. I know what happens.
But I can’t help it. I want the baby mess,
I want the whole disgusting lot of it.
I blame my body, failing me to harvest puppies
Instead of humans, succumbing to this bio-need,
This pro-creative question mark that doesn’t need to breed
But I need another weirdo, and I want a baby me.

Until then, I am judging your baby on my facebook feed.

01/12/2016

Posted on 01/12/2016
Copyright © 2024 Lauren Singer

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by George Hoerner on 03/15/16 at 01:27 AM

Hey lady you did good here!! I enjoyed this and yes I've had a couple of babies, well my wife has and just watched. Well a little more than that!

Posted by Ken Harnisch on 03/16/16 at 09:25 PM

After reading this twice, Lauren, I can assure you you will never "$#%@ up" your baby. He, she, will be twice blessed and more to have you as a mom.

Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 03/20/16 at 05:36 PM

"But I need another weirdo, and I want a baby me." Loved the love/hate in this and how well you write the basic need of it all.

Return to the Previous Page
 

pathetic.org Version 7.3.2 May 2004 Terms and Conditions of Use 0 member(s) and 2 visitor(s) online
All works Copyright © 2024 their respective authors. Page Generated In 0 Second(s)