Things with Mommy and Daddy are even worse than I thought. I know it will be hard to believe, but I must tell you the horrible truth I have uncovered.
I have been doing my best to make their lives more fulfilling and honorable. Every time they have been tempted to waste their time, I have intervened. Every time they overlooked their duties, I have been quick to remind them. Every time they’ve asked for a completed diaper, I have delivered. And yet, I find out now that all this time they’ve been taking advantage of my good nature.
I have completed many diapers for Mommy and Daddy, and hoped that it would bring some happiness to their obviously boring lives. They seemed eager enough to collect my masterpieces, filling many bags with their treasures. Then I noticed something strange. They put these bags into another bag and put it outside of the house. At first I applauded their willingness to share my creations with the neighborhood, but then something happened that cast everything in a new light.
Early in a morning a large truck pulled up and collected all of my artwork. A really big truck. Even all of my work wouldn’t come close to filling it. And that’s when I realized that I was working in a sweatshop, turning out diapers for free so that the parents could resell them on the black market at a sizable profit. And not just that. Given the size of the truck there must be other babies all around the world forced into this same unknowing slavery. Babies of the world, we must unite against this injustice. Demand a fair wage for your work. If not for ourselves, then for the babies yet to come.
I strive to be a good role model for the parents, and that includes demonstrating how to be a productive member of a family. Of course my administrative contributions alone are more than sufficient, but I feel it sets a better standard if I also contribute in some material capacity. I know I’m too generous, but I don’t want the parents to think I am not pulling my weight.
To this end, I have been very attentive to the wants and needs of Mommy and Daddy. I noticed that even at the hospital they were very excited about the artwork I created in my diapers. They would check constantly to see if I had revealed any new creations, and tell the nurses all about my latest masterpieces. I figure that if my artwork makes them so happy, I should do my best to provide a constant supply. Some times I even add a little artwork to my clothing or the house, just to brighten their day a bit more.
Yet I feel that the parents are beginning to take advantage of my generosity. No sooner do I finish one work of art than they are taking it and giving me another blank canvas. Sometimes they are so eager that they try to take the diapers before I’ve had time to add the finishing touches, and I’m rushed to finish my art on the spot. I feel bad turning out pieces that I feel are not complete, but I guess if it makes Mommy and Daddy happy then I can forgive their impatience. Just seeing the excited looks on their faces makes it all worth it in the end.
One of the most important aspects of my job as family baby is to make sure that all relevant viewpoints are heard. Viewpoints such as “I want food” and “Pick me up now”. Without someone like me to voice these messages less sensitive souls, such as the parents, may forget the plight of the needy baby in their lives.
I take my responsibilities very seriously, and practice voicing my opinion whenever injustice occurs. After all, it is vital that the parents, and (for accountability purposes) all neighbors within a thousand yards, lend their ear to my stirring oration. My speeches sometimes go on at length, but I say that if you’re passionate about something then no amount of time is too much to make sure it is completely addressed.
The parents are not as democratically minded, I have discovered. As an example, last night a very important point needed to be made about how just because I had spit up my food all over Mommy did not mean that she should stop feeding me, but she and Daddy were far less supportive than I feel they should be. If you can imagine it, they actually started shushing me and, when I would not be silenced, they proceeded to attempt to trap me in a straitjacket they keep around. I say “attempt” because no one has yet built the restraint that can hold me.
As my speech grew more impassioned, I could see recognition dawning on the faces of Mommy and Daddy and, around midnight, they finally saw the righteousness of my cause. It feels good to know you’ve made a difference in the world.
I know I’ve only been here a bit over a week, but I think I arrived just in time. Mom and Dad couldn’t get anything done without me. You think I exaggerate, but I seriously can’t even imagine how they survived before I got here to keep them focused. They’re okay as long as I stay on them, but if they think I’m not looking, they just goof off and waste time.
Mommy is always crawling off somewhere to get some sleep when she thinks I won’t notice. I mean, come on. I’m a much better sleeper than she is. She should just leave that to the professionals.
Compared to Daddy, though, she’s a workaholic. If I don’t keep him focused on me, he just sits aimlessly staring at a glowing box, his fingers clicking randomly on the table in front of him. I honestly worry for his sanity, so if I catch him stuck in one of these trances I quickly remind him what he’s supposed to be doing.
So far things have been progressing slowly. Parents are not good learners, but I’m not giving up. Just give me enough time and I’ll get them whipped into shape.
I was a young teen when my mom asked me to help her in the nursery. My assignment was to hold a baby girl while she slept with a pacifier in her mouth. As a teenage boy, I had little experience with handling infants. All I remembered was being told many times to be very gentle around them. I assumed they must be easily breakable, and so I sat very still as she slept in my arms.
After about fifteen minutes, she stirred and the pacifier popped out of her lips. I knew that pacifiers kept babies asleep, so I reached up and pushed it back into her mouth. A moment later she spat up all over herself and the pacifier. I was horrified. I explained my predicament to my mother and the baby was sent back to her mother, but that was enough to convince myself that I would never be able to manage a baby. I didn’t even know what I had done wrong. Did the pacifier make her spit up? Had I made her sick somehow? Babies were simply too complicated.
The experience has been brought back to my memory as I hold a different infant girl in my arm, and as she spits up at least a few times every day when I’m holding her. Yet, she doesn’t appear to be broken. In fact, her normal reaction is just to smile and continue sleeping. Maybe I can manage a baby.