This isn’t some sweetly mad tribute to the small creatures, but a genuine question: why do we love something like this?
My latest, for example, isn’t always lovable. He’s an automatic cottage cheese dispenser. Every morning he wakes ups, gurgles, then deposits a clump of self-made cottage cheese, usually on my chest. It’s like the scene in “How to Train Your Dragon” where Hiccup feeds the fish to the dragon Toothless, and the dragon regurgitates a piece of it back again. I just gave this to you—I don’t want it back!
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| (Sometimes nursing is this unnerving . . . |
My baby-as-confused-dairy-man also produces sour cream regularly every evening. His favorite customer is his 17 year-old brother, whom he thanks for “flying” him around the room by paying him with half a pint on his shoulder. Nothing turns a teenage boy into a squealing girl faster than baby barf.
Not surprisingly, my squealing 13 year-old girl handles Dairy Dispenser with much more aplomb, wiping up his contributions with only loud “Ewwww!” noises.
Why do we love this?
The other end of my infant is equally unnerving. He saves up his yellow mustard for two days so that he can befoul his outfit put on him just moments before. His 15 year-old brother has become an expert at changing wet diapers, but as soon as there’s evidence of mustard gas, my teenager flees the room faster than the French.
Why do we love this?
Recently my poor baby has developed a cold. He coughs. He sneezes. He wails in frustration that his two-month-old sinuses are clogged. Yet his 11 year-old brother croons and says, “His sneezes are so CUTE! Listen to that little cough!”
“But it means he’s sick!” I point out.
“I know, but it’s so cute!”
Why? I really want to know!
My baby doesn’t do anything for us. He causes me to lose sleep every night, he’s increased our laundry three-fold; my husband immediately sheds any clothing his infant has whitened. We don’t even use his dairy products. I just rub my dirtied shoulder with my sleeve. I smell like bad Roquefort by bedtime. He doesn’t do any chores, provide any income, and can’t even feed himself. He’s the ultimate dictator, making all of us labor and believe that he deserves our sacrifices.
And yet we adore him. We rush to pick him up, fight over whose turn it is to hold him, and cheer when he smiles back at us.
Why?
I don’t think it’s instinctual, seeing him as a way to continue our survival, because far too many parents and caregivers take out their frustrations, jealousies, and selfishness on innocent babies. The urges to preserve one’s self seems to be stronger than the urge to preserve the next generation (read the arguments about the federal deficit and budget for evidence).
And seriously, most babies really aren’t “cute.” They have weird hairlines. Proportionally, they’re way out of whack. They slobber. They’re snotty. Yet we kiss those foul cheeks and proclaim we see none of those oddities. Have we been conditioned by our society to automatically pronounce “cuteness” as soon as a baby is presented, no matter how un-cute it is?
Why?
The best I can conclude is that it’s related somehow to the words of John the Beloved, words that for years I never understood: “We love him, because he first loved us.” (1 John 4:19). I’d hear people quote that in church, and I’d nod in feigned understanding. But it always seemed some words were missing.
But now I get it. “Him” is the Savior, and he loves us even when we’re not lovable. Even before we knew how to love him back.
My baby doesn’t know how to love me back, but I CHOOSE to love him anyway. Eventually, he’ll learn that love, too, and pass it on. I kiss him on the cheeks, even if they’re smeared with nose goo, and I just wipe him clean without another thought.
Maybe it’s a divine spark, the beginnings of understanding how God feels for us. What do we do for God? Nothing. Does He still love us? Yes.
And I still can’t help but ask, Why?
