My daddy says babies make people happy, and me especially. I find myself hard-pressed
to explain this phenomenon. A baby is just a person the same as any adult—though
admittedly smaller, softer, and less capable of using cutlery in an appropriate
manner—so it escapes me why my existence should inspire any more elation than
does a run-of-the-mill grownup. Apparently, I have the unaccountable ability
to brighten the countenance of strangers who then proceed to regale Mama with
tales of their own children, offer her advice on sleeping habits, and insist
that she immediately seek out a profeesional yoga instructor who specializes
in prenatal exercise.
Furthermore, I can make close friends and family members positively euphoric
simply by moving my appendages while they’re in a position to feel. My two
uncles had occasion to visit me this past weekend, and their reactions to my
movements ranged from fascination to delight to abject fear. Ah, what power
I possess. Though I have never tasted air, I have made hearts race,
elicited audible exclamations,
provoked gallons of joyful tears, and even prompted the exchange of currency
for goods and services. Daddy has told me that a man named Pharoah once altered
the course of two nations by taking action on behalf of a baby named Moses,
I should not
so strange that I induce smiles in others. Still, I find my influence bewildering.
Perhaps this should not be such a mystery to me. After all, I have never laid
eyes on either of my parents, and yet I love them both with all of my being.
They have neither heard my voice nor felt my skin, but they would both willingly
die to save my life. And that, I suppose, is where the real power lies.