THERE is a biological reason babies are cute. Their heavenly little features, button noses, chubby fingers and cheeky smiles are essential for their survival. They have to be. Many a blunder is forgiven when you look like a cherub.
If I threw my food on the floor one piece of cheese/toast/fruit/vegetable at a time – and paused to watch each item land – I am sure I would get more than an exasperated ‘‘tsk, tsk’’ in response.
If I attempted to eat the dead bug I found under the lounge instead, I might be left to it. If I arched my back and squealed and thrashed about while someone helped me into my car seat, Iam certain I’d cop a karate chop to the solar plexus.
And if I waited until I was sitting in said car seat and the driver started reversing out of the driveway before I put a concentrated, grunting effort into pushing out a pungent mess that leached into my clothes, I am positive I’d just be left behind with a hose and a curious labrador sniffing at my rear.
Thanks to an unsettled baby, the first night of a recent ‘‘relaxing’’ mini-break yielded about two to three hours’ sleep in total.
Cue the bickering parents. I wished for an ‘‘opt out’’ button. I wanted to unsubscribe from the relentless responsibility of parenting. I understood why some animals eat their young. Completely.
But then I woke up to giggles, and that feeling of being watched.
Opening my eyes to see my little one standing in his port-a-cot sporting an ecstatic dimpled grin at our proximity eased the fury I was clinging to from the night before. With a cuddle, the red mist of rage dissipated.
I tell you, kids, it’s lucky you are cute. Enjoy it while it lasts. Because once you are of a certain age, farting when someone holds you close is no longer considered so adorable.