My husband hates babies.
He informed me Saturday that he loves our children, but it’s just unfortunate that they have to start out as babies because he hates babies. They cry. They poop. They can’t be reasoned with (although I argue that sometimes 31-year-old men can’t be reasoned with either, ahem…). They can’t tell you what they want. They puke. There is no gratification for taking good care of them other than an occasional smile, which is usually followed by puke. They’re too easily hurt so you have to be careful with them. They’re no fun until they can talk and be tossed around a little.
You’ll hate babies soon too, he warned me last night. Once Abbi can roll over and crawl and is no longer easily confined to a bouncy seat, then I’ll hate babies too, he predicted.
I laughed and told him that Abbi will be rolling over soon and once that happens, she won’t be a baby much longer. She’ll be well on her way to crawling, then walking and becoming a toddler. He said I’m crazy and she’s not rolling over anytime soon, so I have plenty of time to realize that I hate babies too.
Ten minutes later as she lay in her crib watching the ceiling fan and sucking her thumb, she rolled over. I still love babies. My husband still hates babies. But she won’t be a baby much longer.
