Let Me Kiss Your Baby

Big, bright eyes with long eyelashes. Those giggles. The funny faces they make when you give them a lemon slice? Classic.

Guys, it’s official: I have baby fever.

I JUST LOVE BABIES!! I am the self-proclaimed baby whisperer. Give me a baby and that baby will love me, or your money back. Granted no one is paying me, but still.

I wave to babies in line at the store. I play peek-a-boo with babies on the bus. I smile at babies when they’re eating in restaurants, chocolate all over their little chubby cheeks. I should just run for president so I can kiss babies on the campaign trail. I know, it’s weird. I’M WEIRD! But I can’t stop!

I’m at a point in my life where I can’t afford to go to a 3D movie, let alone pay for the expenses and time needed to care for a small human. So having a baby of my own is completely out of the question.

But then I got to thinking: what if I never have a baby? Would that be the worst thing? What if I’m just Crazy Aunt Vicky all my life? I think I would be okay with that!

Think about it: all the fun of a parent with none of the responsibility! I can play with the baby and kiss the baby but when said baby makes a boom boom in the pants, I can pass that stinky little guy to its rightful owner.

Let me set the scene. It’s Christmas Eve. Crazy Aunt Vicky rolls into the party wearing a floor length red silk slip, meant to go under a dress but I’m wearing it on its own, and with no bra on. Let’s assume my nips are hard too, for the sake of the story. I say my hellos by giving everyone some big ole no-bra, squishy titty hugs before heading to the bar cart. I see a beautiful green bottle peeking behind two other bottles. The light shines reflects off the green glass and into my soul. Tanqueray, we meet again. What trouble will we find ourselves in this time?

I pour a gin and tonic. Mostly gin, very little tonic. A lemon slice to garnish—classy shit for a classy lady. I down it—takes me 5 seconds, tops. I pour another to hold as I walk around. I’m going room to room, drink in hand, saying inappropriate things, nips still hard (let’s assume). Two drinks down, three, four, then five. I’m on my sixth gin and tonic and things are getting reckless. I find myself dancing on a table singing Don’t Stop Believing but eventually get pulled down. I set down my glass next to me. I hear someone across the room say something about hating dogs so I get a little defensive. I stand up quickly to say something like “dogsss’re greeat okey?” I move my arm and it knocks my own drink onto my slip. I blame the person sitting next to me, asking why they’d throw their drink on me. This eventually starts a fight and I get thrown out of the party, maybe even get arrested. Hell, I can do whatever the heck I want! I only have myself to worry about.

Could I do this if I had a kid? HECK NO! Kids keep you accountable for your irresponsible actions, with their judgmental looks and their constant demand for attention, financial stability, and food!

On second thought, maybe I will consider having children of my own. Maybe I’ll need to be accountable! If I keep it going at this rate, this scary scenario might actually become reality. And I can’t have that! I’ve seen Orange Is the New Black! I don’t think I could handle prison!

Alright so maybe I’ll have children, but I’ll stand by what I said before—definitely not any time soon.

So until then….

 

Blog On Fleek

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