People so often hand babies to presidents and people who are running for president and so it's the president or candidate's job to then hold the baby as though there's simply nothing they'd rather do more than hold that li'l punkin up, kiss 'em on the cheek and smile for the cameras.
And not to compare myself with heads of state or anything, but I can't help but sympathize with what I perceive to be a vaguely strained and uncomfortable look that passes across the president's face (although in rare cases they truly do seem as though there's nothing they'd rather do than hold the baby, a la Bill Clinton) in these instances.
Of late, I'm being handed many a baby. Now, every now and then, I like to hold me a baby. I'll even sometimes request to hold a baby. But there's something happening nowadays, and maybe it's got something to do with people assuming I have even the foggiest notion of how to handle infants now that I'm approximately 49 million years old and my biological clock should basically be screaming at me right about now. Maybe I have a look on my face that says "Give me that baby. There's nothing I'd like more at this moment than for that baby to be all up in my business." If this is the case, it's not me, it's the biological clock -- I promise.
Nonetheless, here I am, holding babies. Babies are all up in my business. They are looking at me with vacant expressions and tugging on my hair with the force of stallions. If we could just harness the might in babies' arms perhaps we could solve the energy crisis. Last night, one such baby -- a huge baby -- was up in my business. Her mother, a co-worker of mine, handed her to me without prompting. Mind you, this child is 6 months old but is in the 95th percentile for her weight and height, which means she's about 7 feet tall and weighs around 490 pounds. This is one sturdy baby. And what do you suppose this baby likes to do more than anything in the whole wide world?
That's right, the baby likes to "jump." Here we go, let's play the jumping game, which really involves me holding you under the armpits and bouncing your size 14 feet on my knees. Seriously, this baby loved that shit. I'd never seen a baby smile so big. I've also never seen a baby vomit so much immediately afterward.
See, this gigantic baby is apparently unaware of my clothes-wearing schedule. I have two pairs of work pants that I switch off on throughout the week. Monday is the black pinstripes, Tuesday is the brownish woolish pair with the terrible pilling in the crotch, then again on Wednesday with the pinstripes and again on Thursday with the brown awful crotch pilling pants. Friday is casual day, thank God, and then all laundry is done on the weekend.
Laundry does not happen on Monday nights, and I don't think this gigantic barfing baby was quite aware of that. Because there was a sound like a bubble popping and then a warm oozy feeling on my black pinstriped legs. And do you think the baby was embarrassed about this activity? Certainly not.