This is not the sort of conversation that many people have or admit to having. But I need to air this out for the sake of my conscience.
(So nervous to post this right now.)
Up to this point in my life, so far I have never been the woman to coo over the babies that pass me by. I don’t need to hold the baby. I don’t need to talk to the baby. No, I’m too busy doing the baby’s momma’s hair. I’m talking to her.
Don’t pass me the baby if I haven’t asked… unless it’s an emergency. Additionally, don’t pass me the baby if I haven’t asked unless you are playing a mean joke and want to see the color drain from my face. I’m simply not prepared emotionally, mentally or physically for you to spring a baby on me.
(Keeping my fingers crossed that this will change once I’m a mother.)
And for heaven’s sake, please don’t wait for me to gush over how adorable your baby is. I guess I’m just not mature enough to notice yet. ‘Cause Brian and I agree: most – not all, but most – babies aren’t thaaaaaaat beautiful. Funny looking? Sure. Squishy looking? Sure. Terrifying? Yes.
(Please don’t hate me.)
In my opinion, all babies are precious, are miracles and are gifts.
None of those, however, necessarily guarantee handsomeness.
(I really feel ashamed for admitting this, but… well, I’m simply determined to be transparent. If I pretended to be more doting just to get people to like me, I might as well not write at all.)
So here’s the silver lining in this painfully honest perspective: Brian and I both also agree that the less obvious it is that you have a cute baby, the more likely your child is to grow up and have model looks.
My husband swears that my siblings and I are “beautiful,” even the boys. He also looks back on our baby and childhood pictures, wrinkling his face and muttering something about The Ugly Duckling. The metamorphosis that occurred between infancy and puberty, then puberty and adulthood simply baffles him. How could his beautiful wife have come from such snaggle teeth? Such manly eyebrows? Such bizarre hair?
Did you know that my own mother got my ears pierced when I was mere months old because she was tired of everyone asking, “What’s his name?”
More than once, Brian has compared me and my sister to fine wine, insisting that, in the looks department, we just get better with age.
So, no, Brian and I don’t hope to have a pretty baby. We just hope to have a baby. The uglier, the better!
Months from now I’m probably going to wonder what’s the matter with all the people who aren’t cooing over my baby, who aren’t asking to hold it and who aren’t telling me how adorable s/he is. There’s a very good chance that I’m going to develop amnesia regarding my lifelong aversion to baby glee and judge the very people who think that my baby is better left in the stroller than in their arms. Yep, I’m going to be the biggest hypocrite you’ve ever met.