Surrounded by infants, babies, toddlers ... oh my!

April 14, 2011 at midnight
Updated April 13, 2011 at 11:14 p.m.

By Aprill Brandon

First, it was the celebrities. Beautiful, thin, rich, glamorous women all having (and/or adopting) beautiful, thin, rich, glamorous children and making motherhood look like one big beautiful, thin, rich, glamorous adventure, in which it was possible to get your figure back in two weeks.

Then, it was the families. Mine. His. Heck, for all I know, yours. All dropping hints what beautiful children my husband and I would have and what a big beautiful, deeply in debt, discovering-Cheerios-in-your-hair kind of glamorous adventure it would be in, which you got your figure back in two years (probably).

But then ... then came the last straw. Now, the babies themselves are getting in on the action.

For the past two weeks, I have been visiting family back home in Ohio. And with every passing day, it has become abundantly clear that the youngest members of my ever-expanding, extended family have a dark and sinister ulterior motive. Simple vacation? Ha! Silly me. No, it appears I have walked into an aggressive and massive baby marketing campaign that is relentless (in fact, I've been to time share presentations that used less high pressure sale techniques).

Now, I'm not sure how they have been able to mobilize and get organized so quickly (considering a significant number spend most of their downtime drooling), but the babies and toddlers in my family are systematically wearing down my defenses regarding motherhood. And considering, that with the exception of my 12-year-old brother, every single one of my relatives under the age of 40 has young children, these infant strategists have strength in numbers.

There was 6-month-old William, who despite having a history of being shy around strangers, let me pick him up right away. He also used his big, huge baby eyes to melt my freakin' heart, like his pupils were laser beams.

There was 4-month-old Huxley, who acted as though I was the most hilarious person he had ever encountered and kept giggling that infectious little baby laugh at everything I did, EVEN when I told the joke about the dsylexic man walking into a bra (No one ever laughs at that joke, Huxley. I am so onto you, bub).

There was 4-year-old Isaac, who sang every song he knew to me and was the freaking poster child for kids who say the darndest things. (For example, while his two older sisters were outside playing and he was giving his impromptu concert, I mentioned to his mom how he seemed to be enjoying having all the attention on him. Upon overhearing me, he said "Finally!")

There was Jackson, who at only age 2, began posing (fist under chin, head tilted slightly to the side) as soon as I whipped out my camera and then ran over in glee to see the photo as soon as I snapped it.

And then there were Samantha and Julianna, who both drew pictures for me when they heard I was coming.

Needless to say, it was overkill. Every time I saw them, they were adorable and sweet and funny and cuddly and smelling all baby-like.

I'm only one woman, kids. You've got to ease up on the cuteness and that adorable way you have of saying my name because you still can't pronounce your R's. I can't take it anymore.

I mean, I get it. Kids are great. They're wonderful. A blessing. And, some day, I plan on having a whole litter and junk.

But not yet. So lay off. And the next time you see me, kids, I want the temper tantrums and the pooping on the floor and the projectile vomiting and the army men up the nose and all the other things I know you do but hide from me when I come around.

Oh, and one last thing ... when you guys finally start that inevitably successful PR firm (you know, once you're done teething and whatnot), I know a certain unemployed columnist in need of a job. Just sayin'.

Aprill Brandon is a columnist for the Advocate. You can read more of her writing on her website



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