A Baby, A Mama, And An Unfortunate Sentence
See this face?
Ike's expression is a perfect illustration of how I felt when I looked out to see that the restaurant patio was buried under three feet of snow.
I started to mind my January blues less, though, because a strange and pleasing thing happened that I did not expect.
When I was getting ready to meet Aleigh and Ike for lunch, I was nervous, because babies generally don't like me. If I look at them too long or curse them with my repulsive touch, they tend to squinch up their faces and start to cry some pretty serious tears. When that happens, it is important that I dodge out of the child's line of sight and stay dodged. They don't like to see me twice.
It had been a while since I'd been around a baby, though, so I had hope that my body's electrical currents and the earth's natural magnetism had aligned in such a way as to render me less horrible to the under-one crowd, and, lo and behold, they had.
The baby, I think he liked me.
Ike didn't cry, fuss, or physically recoil. In fact, he bounced on my lap for twenty minutes until my armpit muscles stopped holding my arms up, held lengthy conversations with me that involved tongue clucking and spitty motorboat lips, and manhandled various parts of my face, which, by the way, caused me to add a new sentence to the growing list of things I should not have said out loud.
Ike grabbed my bottom lip, which has a cold sore on it, and what brilliant sentence came out of my mouth?
"Oh, no. I think I just gave your baby the herp-iss."
Yeah. A-hem. I would suggest that you not mention your friend's baby and herpes in the same sentence. Aleigh seemed to take this information about the herp-iss well enough, though. She still smiled all purty for me afterward.
The liquid end of my lunch was a delightful pint of Alexander Keith's. It was sparkling with a yeasty bouquet, which is just the way I like it.
All herpes aside, babies and beer and hot mamas do make for a fine midday break. I heartily recommend all three.