I like ‘em. I do. Not all the time, and not every single one, but I do appreciate babies. Why? Because babies are PUNKS. They could give a flying crap about you, your wants and needs, schedules, or anything else reasonable and logical. Babies are the ultimate in-your-face ego. If they want something, BY GOD, they are gonna let you know about it, and they want stuff all the time. They are so punk, they don’t even realize that they are utterly weak and dependent upon the large people in their vicinity. They believe that the world revolves around them, and magically, IT DOES. Ha ha, babies!

I enjoy seeing ass-whupped new parents, pushing a stroller with that look on their faces, which is some meld of exhaustion-bewildered-beaten-lovesick. You can’t tell anyone before they have kids, how much those punks will just kick your grill right in. Babies are powerful. They hold all the cards. Even in those newborn-sized diapers that fit in the palm of your hand – they’ll go through 12 of those in a day, and pee on you when you go to change them. PUNKS!

I used to be annoyed by crying babies before I had some. WTF, I would think, SHUT UP! Now, I pretend they are odd tropical squawking birds and it seems almost intriguingly exotic. I like how the more parents fuss with them, the louder they get. HA HA! Fuss fuss bounce bounce walk walk, CRY CRY CRY! HA!

It really gets great when babies start walking, then running. I love seeing a short little toddler bolting all of a sudden for some unknown destination, with a mother running after, going. “AIDAN! NO, HONEY! STOP! STOP!” Aidan is faster and wilier than a Kenyan sprinter, and sometimes can get a good 50 feet ahead, with a look of joy and determination on his little baby face. GO, AIDAN! RUN THAT BITCH! HA!

I also like babies because they are not yet screwed by The World. They are plain and simple. They like what they like, they hate what they hate. My middle baby used to sit on the kitchen floor and crinkle paper, laughing like it was the funniest thing ever. I like this. My oldest baby, when he learned how to roll, would roll and roll and roll on the floor until he hit something, like a pinball machine. I like this. My youngest baby, at slightly over two years old, called me into her room to tell me she “had issues.” I like this. Babies are absurd.

You gotta be brave, to deal with punks on a daily basis. Or absurd.