Babies.

Ugh.

Perhaps my license to be female is going to be revoked for such a… Babies.

Ugh.

Perhaps my license to be female is going to be revoked for such a blasphemous statement, but so help me, I am not kidding. I don’t trust people who can fit comfortably into backpacks.

So you can imagine my chagrin when my older sister announced she’d acquired one, and that she was bringing it to our parents’ house the same weekend I planned to visit. Of course, she was all doofy and maternal and happy about the little creature, which probably couldn’t even fetch a stick.

Of course, aunt-hood requires a certain pleasant facade.

“Oh Jen, she’s so cute!”

The little ferret would probably look like Winston Churchill.

“She’s so well-behaved!”

I doubt anyone would make such a remark about me if I routinely crapped in my pants.

The fateful day arrived. I stepped through the front door of my parents’ house, already braced for a squealy, embarrassing welcome and concomitant ear inspection from my mother. She barely registered my presence after I finally found her in the kitchen playing peek-a-boo with Carmen.

I have seen the enemy, and she is Carmen.

Unaware of my pathological repulsion of cold-cuts, the kid immediately reached out a ham-coated fist to my face in an unorthodox caress comprehended only by babies and those who like them.

“Oh, she must really like you,” my mother enthused.

Great.

She had crackers in her hair and mustard on her ear. She was featuring dueling plaids and wore one tiny sneaker.

Eventually, Carmen went to sleep and my sister started telling us all about setting aside bottles for the kid to drink while she was at work. The whole process sounded horribly bovine. Maybe I just don’t get it, but “breast” and “pump” don’t seem like two words that should go together. Ever.

The next morning, I heard the kid burbling away downstairs in the living room at the ungodly hour of 8 a.m. Realizing I was not going to get back to sleep any time soon, I decided to go see what all the ruckus was about. Of course, I very nearly took a header after running full-speed into the gate that had been installed conveniently at kneecap-height on the staircase.

“So, kid, what’s shakin’? The rest of the family seems to think pretty highly of you. Do you like, juggle, or what?”

She made a little sound, blew a rather impressive drool bubble and rocked around on all fours.

“Fascinating as this conversation is, I’m gonna put in a CD. There are no redeeming values, no educational tidbits and no purple dinosaurs. I don’t want to hear any editorial comments outta you,” I admonished her.

Loud, obnoxious Irish punk rock filled the room. Carmen kind of cocked her head in my direction.

Typically when I visit the folks my choices in music are the subject of massive ridicule and persecution. I never get to massage their impressive stereo system for any decent stretch of time.

The music got louder and more frenzied. Carmen waddled over to the coffee table. She clawed at the edge of it and pulled herself upward. She was now in a sort of upright position.

“Wow, kid, you’re really getting somewhere. Maybe one day you’ll be able to walk. Congrats,” I snarked at her.

The best track on the album came on.

Carmen started to dance.

Now, this was no Macarena, let me tell you, but the kid was moving in time to the music. She was sort of bending her knees and bobbing her head, white-guy-at-the-club style, while she gripped the table. She was working her way around it toward me.

Enter her momma and her granny.

“Look Jen, Carmen’s standing! She’s dancing! With Melissa!” Mom was gushing.

In spite of myself, I smiled. Just as the kid was about to tumble, I picked her up. She settled into my lap and kept right on bouncing. Before I knew it, I was laughing.

For the rest of the weekend, Carmen and I got to play disc jockey undisputed.

The folks tell me Jen and her husband are expecting another kid. I’m sure this one will be just as wrinkly and impolite as his or her big sister. It’ll probably cry and scream and wake up the whole house when it finally arrives for the big visit.

I’d better warn my pal Carmen. I wouldn’t want her to be caught off-guard about the horror that is a new baby.

Pro-baby propaganda can be sent to Melissa Meinzer at [email protected] where it will promptly be disposed of like a loaded Pamper.