Luke Morris

3/8/2004

To Serve a Baby

My baby is crying, which means he just woke up. He doesn’t like to wake up. It makes him angry. He runs on a strict schedule, after all. Sleep, wake up, cry, eat, get changed, pee on Dad, be cute, sleep again, all on a rhythm. You can’t mess with perfection.

And don’t think he doesn’t know how good he has it. The world rotates at his command. As far as he is concerned, the whole universe seeks desperately to solve the problem of his poopy diaper. Thus he shows how we foolish mortals lose our wisdom with age – we bustle and hurry and accomplish things, but we never sit back and let the world do things for us. In this land of adults, then, the baby is king.

Amazing is the extent to which the baby’s way of life reflects the beliefs of the modern American. If he feels content, the world is good. If he has a problem, the world must solve it. He holds fault for nothing; he claims no responsibility; he wields all power. Who dares question him? The wail of death lies in wait for any who heeds not his whine. Articulate? Why should he? It is up to others to determine what he needs – he has no time for such petty concerns. His lot is merely to issue the complaint, and to watch with amusement as his environment changes to meet his demands, whatever they may be.

And we, his father and mother, his moral guideposts and examples of the proper life, do nothing to disillusion the boy. On the contrary, we submit to his rule as loyal serfs, steadfastly reinforcing his certainty that reality exists only as a symphony to celebrate his grandeur. He smiles, and we smile with him. We feel at peace, happy, in harmony with nature, as if all the celestial bodies had aligned just for us. He cries, though, and we cry harder. Our souls shake, our world collapses, our peace is ripped out, and cacophony reigns. We must fix the problem, whatever it is, as fast as we can, and restore order to our chaotic minds. Mom and Dad, Mistress and Master, Queen and King of their castle, slaves to the whim of a ten-pound tyrant.

So we change him, feed him, rock him, burp him, hold him, and play with him; and on those occasions when he starts to smell like the disposed waste of a formula plant, we brave the water and bathe him. And what do we get for our work? What rewards receive we for courageous deeds humbly performed? In what way does this tiny pink center of our universe shower his benevolence upon us for our selfless dedication? He sleeps a few hours. Maybe. Or he cracks a smile for the digital camera that incessantly clicks whenever the potential for cuteness arises. Instead of whining or screaming, he tries to engage us in conversation, showing off his wit and his mastery of reason, employing a language alien and unintelligible and common to all races of men. He jabbers, he gossips, he tells us off. He swings his head back and forth to find a new target upon which to rest those big, blue eyes. If we’re lucky, he might even giggle a little bit.

Thus we are reimbursed for services rendered. This is our thanks from a smelly, grumpy, needy little bag of flesh – a giggle and a few hours rest.

But I cannot rest. I stay up until three in the morning to do my work, having spent the earlier evening hours entertaining my son, a boy who is becoming way too much like his Dad for his own good. Jabbering, giggling night owls, both of us. Sleep is as evasive as spiritual enlightenment, if either state even exists; and if they do, I would choose the first. I long for it, I starve of it, I even daydream about it. Then, when I think I have captured it, when I have beaten the wakeful night at last, when my breathing is slow and my eyes are closed and my mind is devoid of thought, when my face is buried deep in the pillow I hope never to leave, I hear it. He has risen again. For sleep to take hold of me, it had to abandon him, and he is hardly the happier for it. He begins anew to vent his fury on the world, demanding restitution from the unjust universe that dared allow his diaper to moisten.

And so Dad-Man, that superhuman, sleepless being, steps up once more to take on the challenge. I comfort the baby, I pick him up, I change him, I feed him, I play with him. Always the noble spirit, I take on the work without complaint. With some complaint. With a lot of complaint. With self-righteous, bitter, profane grumblings falling somewhere north of blasphemy. Whatever. I do it anyway. I give up all hope of sleep, peace of mind, religious fulfillment, and other such meaningless extravagances, and devote my grudging attention to satisfying the needs of the puny, pink, puking thing in front of me.

Then, my work done, my miracles performed, he slips slowly back to sleep. He flails his arms twice to make sure they’re still there, then drops them limply to his sides. His head lolls and his eyes glaze over. Before he closes them, though, he looks up once more – and smiles at me. And it’s all worth it.