The Baby

Exercise: write from a point of view that is the polar opposite of yours.

"Who's a gorgeous wee boy? Who's a - oh, look, he's smiling! Who's got a beautiful smile? You, that's right! Yes, you do! Aaaaahbrprprprpr-"

My sister Imogen raspberries into the child's neck and is rewarded with a chortle. She does it again. And again. I turn the volume up on the TV.

I never got all the hype around babies. I mean, sure, some of them are cute, once they've grown hair and can smile and stuff. Some. This one's not too bad - big black eyes, long eyelashes, the beginnings of curls. 

Most of them look like aliens to me, though. And that's the least of what I hate about them.

"Ah, I think he's done a poo..."

That, on the other hand...

Imogen gets up and takes the baby to her bedroom, which has been transformed into a nursery for the day. I follow her just so that I can shut the door on them both.

There's a whole plethora of other horrible things in between how they look and how they smell that I also don't like. How people just go crazy around them. That brain-shattering cry of theirs. Or how much time they take up, and space, and money. The year Lydia was born was my last year of guitar classes.

Of course I don't blame Lydia for that. She didn't ask to be born. I blame my mother for wanting a boy so badly that she tried for a fourth child she couldn't afford.

Bitter? Me?

The problem with not liking babies is that people think you're a monster. Which is stupid, because really, just because you don't like chocolate (which is another much-loved thing that I hate) doesn't mean you're going to go into a supermarket and take a flamethrower to the confectionary aisle. And chocolate doesn't turn into people.

Imogen returns, holding the baby, who is only slightly better-smelling.

"Would you hold him for me while I put the changing things away?"

The first and last time I held him was this morning, and he wailed and writhed so much I nearly dropped him. She has been trying to get me to try again - while sitting down - ever since. I give her a look that tells her exactly how crazy I think she is.

"Give him to Tiff."

Imogen sighs and gives him to Tiffany, who shrugs and takes him. She sits him on her knees and jiggles him a bit. He laughs. She raises an eyebrow and tries again. To Tiffany, babies are mostly boring until a certain age, and then they turn into curiosities. To me, babies are terrifying.

Especially since you're having one.

Shut. Up. Brain.

 

"I read on Cracked that babies this age are practically telepathic," she remarks. "They can tell how you're feeling even if you're smiling at them."

"That explains this morning, then," I say. She lies him down on her knees and tickles his feet. No particular response. She tickles his stomach instead and gets a laugh. Tiffany proceeds to systematically test all the parts of his body that would usually be ticklish.

"When's Meriem picking him up?" she asks.

"In two hours and twenty-three minutes," I say, trying to ignore the chortling. "Please stop making him laugh, I'm trying to watch this."

"It's Jersey Shore, Lex. Even I find the baby more interesting than that."

"The stupidity of grown adults is far more fascinating than that thing you're holding" I retort, just as Imogen enters the room.

"You're horrible, Lexie, you know that?" she says.

"Thank you, Gin, I love you too."

She ignores my use of the hated nickname and tries to take the baby back, but Tiffany's in full experimentation mode and waves her off. She pokes him in the tummy. He writhes. She rights him, pokes him in the side. He giggles.

"I didn't think you liked babies, Tifa," Imogen says.

"I don't not like them," Tiff says noncommittally.

"Still, I've never seen you like this with one. With Lydia, for instance."

"I was six when Lydia was born. I had better things to do."

"Well I was seven and I didn't," Gin retorts. "Give him to Lex, she needs the therapy."

"I'm pretty sure he doesn't," I growl.

"Oh for God's sake, Lexie, how are you going to manage when-"

"IMOGEN!" I shout. Everyone jumps. I grit my teeth. "Just shut. The fuck. Up."

The baby starts to cry. I throw the remote into the sofa a lot harder than necessary. It bounces off and hits my thigh. I ignore it and flee to my room before they see me cry. Stupid hormones.

I know perfectly well how I'm going to manage: badly. If at all. Adoption seems like a brilliant idea right now, care babies or not. Even a care baby would be better off than one with me for a mother.