I Was Thinking

...which, as you know, is always dangerous for those around me or at least within throwing range.

[WARNING: This post is completely unrelated to the ones before it and will most likely have no effect on the ones after it. If you are in any way, shape or form subject to mental and emotional whiplash, consult with your doctor so that you won't feel guilty about skipping this post. In fact, if whiplash is a problem for you, just skip my blog altogether. Go watch something predictable, like CNN, and feel warm and fuzzy inside that other people are supplying the necessary weirdness to keep the earth from wobbling.]

[If that last line didn't make sense, be aware that 1) the stories on CNN and every other news channel carry basically the same stories all the time with only names, dates, and places changed and 2) it's my personal belief that if everyone on earth was reasonable, sane, and normal ALL THE TIME the earth would crack under the strain, half of our world careen into the sun, half would rocket off to find out how far it is to Kolob anyway and the core would stay in orbit as a throbbing broken heart, mourning our folly. Oh, and we'd all be dead. Don't you feel better for knowing that?]

So I've heard that mothers always think that their first baby is absolutely perfect and the best baby ever born. Hence the phrase, 'a face only a mother could love'. This makes sense to me. Newborn babies are so ugly there needs to be some insanity involved or procreation and continuation of the human race would grind to a stop.

I normally avoid mothers with new babies so that when they say "Isn't she/he CUTE!" I don't have to lie. They get upset when you say something like "He/she will be. I guess. Most likely."

I like kids. I like teenagers. I like old people (defined as the ages between twenty-one and a hundred). I like babies, once they're no longer bright red and wrinkly. In fact, I'm willing to befriend anyone who isn't bright red and wrinkly. Red and wrinkly, for me, sends a message: Uncute: Interact At Your Own Risk. With some sirens thrown in.

Before you start complaining about how narrow I am, or point out in a smug voice that when I have children they will be red and wrinkly and I'll be totally besotted with them, let me mention that there is no expiration date on the red and wrinkly warning. I have seen four, six, ten, thirteen, eighteen, and seventy-five year-olds turn red and wrinkly. It is always uncute. It always means Interact At Your Own Risk.

Ah... the earth feels steadier already.