Dear Babies

My life has become much like the movie "The Sixth Sense". The only difference is that I don't see dead people, I see you, Babies. I see you everywhere. I spot you at the grocery store, on the street, in the park, at the mall and at every restaurant. And you see me. I know you do, because you look at me with your adorable little eyes and flash me a two-teeth smile and before I know it, I'm sold. You are a walking advertisement for reproduction, and Babies, your strategies are working.

I realize that you have always been around. I used to be one of you, just like my parents, cousins and friends did. But for the first 23 years of my life, I barely noticed you. I have no recollection of seeing you as I was growing up, and in middle school I had only ever met a couple of you in person. By the time I finished high school, I still hadn't really acknowledged your existence except for the occasional diaper commercial. When I moved to London, I mostly saw the backs of your strollers as your parents hurried through the park to get home in time for Dancing With the Stars. In the last year, however, your numbers must have multiplied by eighteen.

Although you may seem like a minority because, let's face it, you can't yet run the country or even speak our language, I am starting to think that you outnumber us. It's as though Apple created an iBaby and it instantly latched on as the most obtrusive accessory since Ugg boots. Where I used to see grown-ups, I see you. Where I used to see dogs, I see you. Where I used to see purses and dresses, I see you. And if I don't see you, Babies, my husband does and tells me about you. I find myself straining my neck trying to catch a glimpse of you through the car window. I choke on my food attempting to smile at you across the restaurant. And what you have going for you, Babies, is that everything you do makes my heart feel like a microwaved brownie. It doesn't matter if you stick a finger up your nose, throw food at your dad, cry like carrots really are the devil or wave at me with sticky hands. It's all cute.

Whether you came to be because of some godlike force or as a result of evolution, I realize that your cuteness is a mere marketing ploy to keep humanity from going extinct. Still, your propaganda has worked on me, much like the newsletters I get from Urban Outfitters and Barnes & Noble: I know I must have one of you for my very own. But Babies, when I do, don't cry over carrots. They're good for you.

With Love,

Ina