Baby! Breaking the Fever Jasmine Nehilla
ne of my favorite games to play as a child was M.A.S.H. M.A.S.H stood for mansion, apartment, shack, or house and was a fortune-telling game I would often play with my friends between dance classes or during lunch. We would grab a sheet of loose-leaf paper, scribble M.A.S.H on the header and my game partner would list four choices in each category. For example, in the husband category, she would list my current heart throb celebrity crush, a boy I adored in real life, someone I wouldn’t mind settling for and then someone absolutely ridiculous. Other categories included cars, number of children, careers, travel destinations, etc. Once all the categories were filled, I would close my eyes and she would draw a swirl until I said stop. She would then count the spaces in the swirl and the sum of spaces would determine my fortuitous future. Starting at mansion, she would count and wherever the number landed, she would cross the name or destination out and continued on until all options in that particular category were eliminated. Once there was only one option in each category the game was over and the paper revealed my destiny. I always saved the fortunes that said I would have four children or more. I think I was born with baby fever. Baby fever is a conflicting battle. The internet is teeming with all kinds of endearing and delightful baby footage of puppies snuggling and curling up with sleeping babies,
sassy but polite toddlers spewing independence or babes trying lemons for the first time. The allurement of these images would make the most rigid, miserly and grouchiest of grouchy people squeal out girlish AWW’s. And don’t get me started on babies in realtime, they’re everywhere and the cuteness is exemplified! Whether you desire to procreate or not, you can’t deny the feels babies produce. Adding to heat my fever, my Facebook timelines are inundated with glowing baby selfies. I love opening my Facebook to a juicy miniature clone of my friend as much as the next millennial Facebooker. However, the clash in the baby reverie lies in the revolting axioms of parenthood. Oh my, the diaper blowouts, the running out of wipes during said diaper blowouts, the unceasing flow of bodily fluids, the smells, the phantom smells, the eruption of emotions at the worst times, the delusion of sleep, poops during bath time—I can continue this list of horrific sights that can’t be unseen and scents that are forever embedded into my nasal cavities, but I think you get the point. And if you’re a parent, I’m sorry to have reminded or informed you. I truly am.
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