This will make no sense.

Here’s the thing about babies: We were all a baby once. My anthropolology friends would probably be better suited to provide more detail on this next part* but, at least in recent human history, every baby probably has, at some point in its tiny little existence, been completely and utterly loved and adored by one or both parents. I know that I look at my little baby Vibeke and can’t help but feel an overwhelming adoration and affection for this little creature, as well as a hope that her future is bright, that she never wants for anything, and that she never suffers any of the trials and tribulations that myself or her mother have endured.

Back to the babies, though. Seriously. Think about it. Adolf Hitler’s mom and dad had to have, at one time or another, looked a baby Adolf thinking that he was simply the most precious little thing ever. Charlie Manson’s mother probably held him when he cried incessantly for no apparent reason, wondering what was going through that tiny brain of his. Heck, even Rick Santorum’s parents probably held little Ricky and looked into his infant eyes, so full of curiosity, and prayed that their child would end up to be a good man.

This, in turn, put me into a bit of a crisis mode as I began to think about some of the terrible things I have done to people. Teasing. Spreading rumors I knew weren’t true. Lying. Basically all of the dickish things I never could even have contemplated if I was looking at that person when they were a wiggly jellybean of cuteness and drool and dirty diapers. I mean, what the hell happened to them. They were cute babies once, and then they go and do something that I feel the need to ridicule.

You see, my parents probably thought the same things when they held me as an infant.

Hell, what the hell happened to me. I was once one of these little guys, too. When the hell did I turn into who/what I am now. What compelled me to be a dick sometimes and a nice person others?

I look at my little baby and, of course, there are things I want for her and things I hope to avoid. I hope she isn’t clumsy like her mom. I hope that she doesn’t have ear problems like I do. At one point, in what is probably a damned morbid train of thought, it actually occurred to me that, one day, she will pass away. Which led me to hope that she lives a long and healthy life with little-to-no misery or distress.

I have no idea where this is all going or what it signifies. It must be kind of a bummer since the last post was about death and this one seems like it is about life but turned out to be something out of whack and pretty odd.

Then again, maybe all of these thoughts do culminate in a reflection on, and a celebration of, life. Without that cosmic mystery of life, we would have Hitlers or Mansons or Santorums. I don’t know. I love my little baby girl, and that is all that matters.

I told you all this wouldn’t make any sense.

*However, we all know that anthropology isn’t a real science, right?