Published on On Our Selection News May 22, 2014

I avoid children for good reasons.

There is just too much that can go wrong, particularly in the infant stage. Firstly, you generally have to comment on the baby when you first are presented with it. This is usually done by a parent, who, in my mind, is presenting the baby like the baboon on The Lion King, offering their spawn for judgement. If the baby is cute, then this is no problem. But the world is an imperfect place, and occasionally one encounters an ugly baby. You have only a few seconds to respond and are usually left fumbling with “oh, he’s so… alert!” Safety issues are another concern for me around God’s tiniest creatures. Any accidental bump can have lifelong effects – whether it’s giving them a misshapen head after ramming them into a wall or embedding a debilitating fear of skivvies and happy people from overexposure to The Wiggles. I handle a baby like I’m taking something out of an oven – on the outside I am composed, but inside I am freaking out. A baby is much like a pie – you really shouldn’t drop them.

So, naturally I was a little nervous when I paid a visit to my friend and her baby son. After the first five minutes, everything appeared to be going swimmingly. I had the little fellow sitting on my lap, and had impressed him greatly by handing him my glasses to inspect. I sat there in sheer amazement that my friend, who was once known for wearing tight jumpsuits while gyrating on stage to Kiss songs at every talent show our school foolishly continued to hold could brew such a wholesome ball of adorable. Clearly, this thought must have distracted me, because the next thing I knew, the little lad was screaming. My glasses had acted as a gouge, poking him in the eye when I re-adjusted the way I was sitting. It was awful. It took the combined efforts of both parents to hush him.

Following the ordeal, my friend was less than helpful. “Have you ever heard him cry like that?” she asked his father. Later, she said “I have a theory that babies can’t remember being babies because everything is just so traumatic so they just block it out.” While the crying had quelled and the little guy was happily gnawing on a teething rusk, I sat with the heavy heart of a guilty man. When I left, the child was sleeping, huddled in the safety of his father’s arms in another room. Driving home, I was plagued with visions of cartoonishly violent ways the jabbing could have played out, with comically disturbing eye balls being tossed about like a yo-yo. As I drove, I spiralled into a fit of internal turmoil. It was like I was in the particularly intense minutes of Willy Wonker’s creepy boat ride in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, except my ride was chariot of guilt, paddled by screeching cyclops babies, floating on a river of infant tears. I knew which way the river was flowing; the fires of hell were indeed a glowing. I became particularly unhinged when my phone flashed a message notification from my friend.

Surprisingly, I was met with a friendly message, inviting me to come to another play date soon. I’ve since enquired about getting contact lenses, and am considering buying a pair of oven mitts to safely handle the baby during future visits.