To Be a Baby Again

My baby is a chubbo, with the softest roly-poly arms dimpled with baby cellulite! And, as with every aspect of him, it is perfect! He doesn’t know or doesn’t care. He’s a baby! If only we were the same. If only we didn’t know what self-consciousness was. If only we weren’t so cruel to ourselves.

To be a baby again - it would mean being happy with every aspect of my body. I mean, can you imagine? It would never occur to me to think that my legs were too wobbly or my arms too round or my belly too bouncy. I wouldn’t have to pluck my eyebrows and shave my legs (ok, I know, that’s never gonna happen!) or dye my hair (ditto). Everything about me would be perfect just as it was and all the time spent dogging myself (”I’m so faaaaaat!”) would be put to use doing meaningful things.

To be a baby again would mean appreciating everything around me: the trees, every bird, each sound, every note, new animal, new person, new color, flower, texture… It would mean taking nothing for granted.

To be a baby again would mean finding humor in the simplest of things: someone else’s smile, a panting dog, a rush of wind. And laughing. A lot.

To be a baby would mean needing and wanting only the necessities of life: food, shelter, a change of underwear…(!), lots and lots of hugs and kisses and warmth and all that cuddly wuddly stuff that make babies learn to trust.

I wouldn’t be wondering whether my ass looks good in these jeans, why I don’t have a Bugaboo, when I’ll be able to afford the velvet Salvatore Ferragamo heels I saw in Vogue. I’d be more than just happy. I’d be perfectly, comfortably, unabashedly…content.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, September 20th, 2006 at 10:17 am and is filed under Milestones & Pebbles. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.