The baby package

Why do I adore babies? So many reasons. The little hands like soft flowers, the toothless grin, high pitched squeals, the crying that sounds like laughter and the laughter that sounds like bells. And the thighs! Those pulkes (Yiddish); I wished and prayed for a lovely pair on my second child -- the first was, and still is, a skinny kid. And boy did I get my prayers answered. Put a tutu on my naked daughter and you'd have one of the hippos straight out of Fantasia. Little, dimpled, rolled thighs tapering into tiny little ankles and fat square feet with fringe of toes. Yummy.

But enough about how I have a bizarre (and reverse Oedipla) desire to consume my children. Back to why I love babies, all babies, not just mine. Babies are a beautifully wrapped package. Adorable and enchanting to look at, but you have no idea what's inside when it's first put n your hands. But slowly, slowly, the wrapping peels away bit by bit, not in large, consistent sections, but a little snip here, and pulling seam there. Hints of what might lie inside. As I parent, I assume I'll spend the reest of my life watching these packages unwrap and open, but now I only see a flash of blue, and bit of s swirl, maybe a rough spot, and try to guess who the older child, teen, young adult, future parent, gray haired woman, might be. I should really write some predicitions down, and see how right or wrong I am, but I'm afraid I'd just reveal my presumptions that will shape the end product, for better and worse. Because that's the other thing about these packages, the longer you have them, the more you will push on and shape them. What's inside is all there, but years of rough handling can destroy the prettiest bits, where leaving it alone might cause other parts to get dusty and fade.