An open letter to all babies: Why do you keep looking at me?

An open letter to all babies: Why do you keep looking at me?

Have you ever experienced that sensation that you’re constantly being watched?

I don’t mean in a “Jason Voorhees” is stalking me kind of way, nor even a “is that guy looking at my ass” way. I mean that feeling when an all-seeing, all-knowing being has commanded his foot-soldiers to constantly stare at you when you pass in a silent act of defiance.

These creatures I’m speaking of are, of course, babies.

It seems that every time I pass one of these sentient beings, their eyes are fixed upon me. I was at Wendy’s tonight, minding my own business and gorging myself on blended, fried chicken scraps, and behind me appears a face:


I, of course, react in the utter terror that one should rationally see when faced with an incredibly ugly child. I hate to be so blunt, but this child looked like a rejected design of an exotic Star Wars creature. I approached the situation, as I always do in this situation, feigning ignorance. I happily go back to my food but, by this time, my mother has engaged the child by smiling at it. This action has validated the creature’s MO, as he returns to gazing at my visage.

This is not an isolated, freak incident, mind you. It seems that, despite my apathy for children, they are intent on staring at me at every chance. Their eyes speak their creed: “We know you don’t like us and we want to know why.” It’s almost like something out of The Godfather; The Babefather, if you will.

I have oft engaged a child to let me in on the devious plot against me, but they are masters of secrecy.

But it, of course, begs the question: Why do babies keep looking at me?

It’s not like I egg them on to do it, in fact, I avoid children at any cost. Those who know me know that I am the 21st-century male version of Miss Hannigan from Annie:

I have made the decision to not have children because I know that I would be a terrible father. I am far too involved in myself to worry about fostering a little lump through years and years of drama and emotion. I leave child-rearing to those who actually want children and who have the patience to deal with watching the same movie twenty-seven times a day and cleaning up vomit from every inch of the house.

People have often scolded me by saying, “But, Steven, you were a child once, were you not?” It is my theory that I was birthed in the state I am now, glasses and all. To quote the character of Pooh-Bah from Gilbert and Sullivan’s immortal operetta The Mikado: “I can’t help it. I was born sneering. But I struggle hard to overcome this defect. I mortify my pride continually.”

Those of you who have babies, or any sort of child for that matter (excluding grown ones), can you ask them why they must stare at me at every impasse? Tell them that we had an agreement: I would not bring up the rancid odor emanating from them if they would stay out of my business.

And, to think of it, haven’t you taught those little ruffians that it’s impolite to stare? Here I am trying to be a fatass and gorge myself on fast food, and I have some baby silently judging me. “You gonna eat that nugget?” YES BABY, I’M GONNA EAT THAT NUGGET JUST STOP HANGIN’ ON ME.

But, I digress.

If you are a baby and are reading this, I suggest you read Emily Post’s book of etiquette and refine your sensibilities. How will you ever learn manners if you don’t try? I mean, please, the fact that you can’t read is hardly applicable with today’s technology.

I would suggest a true, but I feel that would be in vain. So, I shall ask politely for you to please cease and desist from this fruitless endeavor.

Because, as we all know, a watched pot never babies.

I mean a watched baby never pots.


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