…and now that I’ve got the announcement out of the way, I can indulge in a little rant.
Now that I am officially a father-to-be, I have to deal with something that I have tried studiously to avoid my entire life. Baby Culture. The world of cloying, syrupy, giggling, gushing, pastel-colored, faux-sentimental empty-headedness that accumulates like barnacles around the institution of childbirth. A world of preciousness to the nth degree.
And nothing is more representative of this sacharrine alternate universe than my #1 Baby Culture pet peeve: the pseudonym “Baby”.
Not the mere word “baby”. No, I’m talking about when it’s used to refer to YOUR baby, or MY baby. As in: “footie pajamas – for Baby!”. Or “Taking care of Baby”. Or “Baby’s first thermonuclear device”.
LISTEN up, Baby People. I know your brains are currently dribbling out your ears onto your fuzzy pastel pink scarves due to exposure to concentrated preciousness. But it isn’t “Baby”. It’s THE baby. Or MY baby. Or YOUR baby. Or Our Esteemed and Beloved Future Leader. We don’t take “middle schooler” to soccer practice. No one teaches “teenager’s very first sex-ed class”. You don’t buy deodorant for “husband”. It’s not grammatical, it’s not sensical, it’s not RIGHT. Unless you are making the assumption that I have actually named my infant child “Baby” – and you can safely assume that I WON’T – it’s just stupid.
Seriously, The Baby. Just three little letters, is that so hard? “The”. THE BABY. Honestly, people.