I was on my way to bed the other night when I looked down on the coffee table and noticed a book: “Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus.”
I shook my head and walked on. But it did make me think. As father of a 3-month-old girl, where do babies come from?
The answer, I’ve determined, is the outer rim. The farthest reaches of the universe. Beyond the solar system, out in the galaxy and several more away … plus three miles.
A place that can only be called “Strangeus Unusualia.”
That’s the only thing that could explain so much. They’re not like us, these strange beings with their own language, unique habits and an ability to go through 1,300 diapers in an hour.
Take, for instance, their noises. Often it’s innocent squeaks and coos. But at night, the noises I hear coming from the baby monitor can be downright scary. Grunts, noises like an owl would make and the occasional “ooga-booga-booga.”
The dog looks up at the monitor and then to me with the kind of face that says, “Uhh, whatcha’ got hidin’ in the baby’s room?”
Some nights I’m too afraid to go in there, and I fully expect to hear a little voice say, “Daddy, my diaper wants to talk to you.”
Amelie is officially a noisemaker, and they can be some strange noises.
Then there’s drool. Actually, not just drool. Bubble drool. That’s when they blow bubbles in their saliva, and it doesn’t puddle, but foams down their chin. “Good Lord, honey, she’s rabid!” I yell and run away. I run away a lot. Bubble drool entertains them for hours on end, and then I get the mop.
Babies also grow at inhuman rates, lending proof to my theory. Normal people don’t grow like that. I don’t grow like that. If anything, I’m shrinking. But they’re like kudzu, they grow so quick. Most of her clothes are good on her for an average of 17 seconds. Then if we don’t get them off in a hurry, she just tears right through them like the Incredible Hulk. Why do we even buy clothes? Potato sacks are much cheaper.
She can burp like a drunken pro-wrestler who swallowed a hot dog cart. Like a tuba. Like a freighter’s foghorn. It’s like a cartoon, and the ground shakes. She’s adorable, sweet, dainty, a little blooming flower with eyelashes that gracefully flap like butterfly wings.
Then she burps. Like she’s been outside eating sausage with the boys and talking NASCAR. It sounds like a Harley Davidson starting up.
Then there is the contents of her little nose. It gets so stuffed up, and I desperately want to help her clear it out, but what can I do? My wife yells at me if I even suggest tweezers. So we wait, eventually she sneezes and good golly Miss Molly (cover your ears) what can only be described as modern art flies out! That was in there? How did it fit? What is it? “It’s the pod people!” I scream and usually make a run for it.
Diapers I won’t discuss. It would burn a hole right through the newsprint.
And then there are the smiles, the true proof. Their smiles come from the other side of the moon, and not only could melt butter, they could burn it. You couldn’t make them in a test tube with all the chemicals in the world. You couldn’t paint them and do proper justice. You couldn’t capture them on film or even memorize them correctly. So small, so fleeting — just barely a second in time, then gone like a flash of light.
That’s how I know they’re little aliens. Their smiles get right into you, infecting you with some kind of cosmic goofball germ that shoots through every part of your body. Next thing you know you’ve got the same goofy grin dripping off of your face, you’re bubble drooling and we give them the keys to the planet.