The agony and the ecstasy of having one of the world's cutest babies

I’m not really sure how it happened, but somehow I ended up with one of the world’s cutest babies. It can be kind of a burden sometimes (I just want to finish my grocery shopping but keep getting stopped by all these people who want to tell me how cute my kid is!), and I spend a lot of time feeling badly for other people whose babies aren’t as cute. 

Spencer at 7 months old.

I realize he’s three months away from being 2 years old and is thus more of a toddler than a baby, but he’s still one of the cutest toddlers (see photo at bottom of post). I don’t say this because I’m his mother. I say this objectively. If my baby was ugly, I’d own it. I’d admit it to myself and carry on (I’d never let him know I thought so, of course). I’ve seen lots of ugly babies. Some of them from very attractive parents. I think my husband and I are of slightly above average attractiveness levels (I do think he’s just a little bit hotter than me), so I don’t understand how we created this off-the-charts adorable offspring. My mom’s theory is that because I’m not very maternal by nature, God had to make my baby extra cute so I would care about him. That’s a little harsh, but it certainly didn’t hurt our mother-baby bond.

I think a big part of it is his baldness. Hairy babies just don’t do it for me. A little only slightly icky birth story aside here that you don’t have to read if you’re not into that sort of thing: When he was crowning, the delivery nurse said, “Oh, he’s a little cue ball! I can see the top of his head and there’s not a lick of hair on it!” Despite excruciating contractions, I was thrilled at this news and said, “That’s wonderful! I wanted a bald baby! I think they’re so much cuter!” To which my doctor, who’d just had a baby of her own six months prior, said, “Hey, my baby had a full head of hair, and she’s adorable!” I didn’t want to offend the person who would decide if my lady bits needed to be cut open or not, so I just said, “Oh, I’m sure she is,” all the while knowing she must be so sad inside about her not-as-cute baby.

The next day, when I posted my son’s first picture on Facebook (the 21st century birth announcement), there were many comments about how he was strangely adorable for a newborn. Maybe they were just being nice, but several commenters struck me as very sincere. Because most newborn babies look like swollen, grumpy, little old men. That’s what I was expecting. They’ve gotten beaten up in a vagina for hours and are puffy and exhausted. My son went through all that, but he looked like he’d just come from a day at the spa. He wasn’t puffy with those weird wrinkles newborns get under their eyes. He was perfect, and not just from a mother’s perspective.

I was still convinced, however, that I just thought he was so cute because I was his mom. But as he got older and we went out into public more and more, it became increasingly clear that he was objectively darling. Whenever we go anywhere, it’s like being out with a tiny celebrity. People stop me constantly to comment on how cute he is. I remember one time at the grocery store when he was about 10 or 11 months old, it happened FIVE times in one shopping trip. I didn’t think I’d ever get out of there. It was like being hounded by paparazzi. Paparazzi composed mostly of middle-aged women, but still. Just this week, a grumpy-looking dude behind me in line at check out couldn’t stop smiling when my kiddo looked at him, grabbed some of the fruit I was purchasing, held it up to the guy and proclaimed, “Apple!” That guy had the biggest grin, and then he kept giving my son little waves. It was obvious he didn’t want anyone else to see his interactions and think him unmasculine, but he could not step away from my child’s overpowering cuteness.

I’ve never really been into kids (I love my own, and I think that’s good enough), so I never paid much attention to the existence of babies before. Once I had my son, though, I started seeing other babies EVERYWHERE. Were they there all along and I’d just never noticed? Anyway, as I started taking notice of these other little ones, I just kept realizing how they were less cute than my kid was. Like 95 percent of them were uglier. My husband and I started taking note of the babies pictured on packages of diapers and baby food and in commercials, and he’d turn to me and say, “Why do they use such ugly babies for these things? Ours is way cuter.” We’ve just been too lazy to exploit him commercially. I don’t have time to be a stage mom. 

One of the vendors I work with regularly proudly e-mailed me a picture of her 4-month-old granddaughter just before Christmas. I opened it and said, “Oh, wow!” This baby was U-G-L-Y, no alibi ugly. She asked to see a picture of my baby, and I said I didn’t have one on my computer at work and would try to remember to e-mail her one later. It was all a lie, and I haven’t sent her one because I just think seeing my cute child would make her feel really badly about her non-cute grandkid, and I’m too nice of a person to do that.

My friend Traci, who also has an unusually cute baby, has the same feelings. She said when her family is at a restaurant, and they see another family with a baby there, they start to feel guilty. “My husband and I whisper to each other how awful those poor people must feel to see that their baby’s so much uglier compared to ours,” she said. “They thought they had a cute baby before they came in here, but now they know they don’t.”

It really is hard to carry around all that guilt and pity for parents of uncute infants and toddlers, but it’s my burden to bear. I wonder if this is how really attractive people view the world around them? If I were really pretty, would I look around and just judge everyone as less hot than me? I hope not. Because some very attractive people are very homely on the inside. (Did you ever see the movie, “Shallow Hal?” I thought it was a fantastic message, and I’d like a day where you could see how beautiful everyone was on the inside.) I hope my son remains attractive throughout his life, inside and out. 

We’re starting to see a little more of his personality as he gets older. The cute thing is coming out more and more now that he’s no longer just a cute blob but now also does cute things. He does cute imitations, says cute words, has cute little explosions of joy, etc. etc. But the physical cuteness definitely helps him when he’s being a little prick and his behavior is anything but cute. Like when it’s 3 a.m. and he thinks everyone should be awake to play with him. Or when he throws food on the floor without even trying it or has a tantrum at church because I won’t let him run freely down the aisle in the middle of the service. His cuteness does a lot to bring down his parents’ wrath during these times. He’d better hope that works for as long as possible.

Spencer last month (20 months old)

How to deal with our climate: Lots of crap

I have a humidifier AND a de-humidifier. A furnace AND an air-conditioner.  A snow-blower AND a sprinkler system. Here in the middle of the Midwest, I think we have some of the most variable weather in the world, and it means you have to have tons of crap to deal with it. 

This became apparent to me recently when I saw a picture from one of my best friends who lives in England, as well as a visit with relatives. My British friend posted a picture on Facebook she’d just taken, and the grass was emerald green. I was looking at it while our local weather forecast was on TV, proclaiming that it was 7 degrees outside (Fahrenheit, as all temperatures referenced here shall be because America). Seven-degree weather does not make for green grass. It’s cold, brown and dead. I’ve visited England a couple of times, and while it never gets very cold there, it never gets very warm, either. I remember being freezing in June. Also, my brother-in-law and his girlfriend came in from southern California over the holidays. His girlfriend has lived there her whole life and was really hoping she’d see snow while she was here. It melted the day before they arrived.

All this got me thinking about how much extra crap we have to have in the Midwest to deal with the temperature variations. In recent years, it’s been as hot here as 110 and as cold as -15. Just the wardrobe implications of this alone are staggering. A whole section of my closet is devoted to thick, cushy sweaters. I have two winter coats: a super-insulated L.L. Bean parka that I’ve had since college that’s good to like -20, and a wool dress coat. Then there are a series of progressively thicker jackets and almost-coats for the fall and spring. There is another section of my closet housing tank tops and capri pants. If I lived in southern California, that’s all I’d ever need. If I lived in England, I’d hardly ever use those, but I wouldn’t need the arctic parka, either. A couple weeks ago, Target had an ad for an “end-of-season sweater sale.” I don’t know if they’re referring Tampa, but I can assure you it is not end-of-sweater season here. Sweaters will be worn for at least the next three months. 

Then there’s all the stuff you have to do and have for your house, many of which I mentioned at the beginning. Not all of them are necessary, but they’ve made life a lot easier. The humidity here in the summer can be stifling. I have felt a “dry heat,” and it really is a great deal better. We have leaky basement issues, and the de-humidifier helps us deal with those during the sticky summer months and keeps the house cooler. But now that we’re in ass-cold season (we’ve been having an “arctic blast” for about a week now, according to local meteorologists) and the furnace is on blast, you could mummify if you didn’t keep moisturized. We’ve caused several weird electrical issues by walking around, unknowingly building up static electricity and shocking stuff. We invested in a humidifier this year, and it has made a world of difference. I’ve thought about putting the de-humidifier in the same mechanical closet as the humidifier and letting them duke it out. 

Last year, our pipes froze, and then five months later our air-conditioner broke and we had to sleep in the basement while spritzing ourselves constantly with water to feel like we weren’t dying. We’ve had droughts and floods. Feet of snow and crazy heat waves. And many times, they can happen within the same week.

Another house-weather thing you have to consider in the Midwest is tornadoes. If you don’t have a basement here, you have a death wish. People on the coasts get hurricanes, but they know they’re coming. There’s enough time for someone to come up with a cute little name for them and spend days on TV projecting their track. You can have days to get away from something like that. Tornadoes drop down in minutes. I remember many nights of my childhood sitting in our basement laundry room on a pile of dirty clothes, holding the cat and listening to sirens outside and a weather radio. We did regular tornado drills at school. I have never been directly in the path of a tornado, but I’ve been darn close and seen the devastation afterward. I know people who lost their homes. And if you see on the news that someone died in a tornado, it’s usually always someone in a mobile home. Because those things don’t have basements, and you need one if you’re going to live here. It also doubles as a place that floods a lot. You don’t know fun until you’ve used a wet vac while trying to watch the Oscars. 

This may all sound like a pain, but I think anywhere else would be boring. A meteorologist who started on one of our local TV stations a few years ago came here from Florida and said he was really glad to be here because the weather was so much more interesting. And it’s an excuse to have a lot of clothes. (I said that, not the meteorologist.)

A very important 10-year anniversary

This New Year means more to me than a resolution or a fresh start. It marks the 10th anniversary of a very important relationship for me - one that has brought me love, solace, comfort, and lots of stray hair.

Bennett moved into my apartment with me in Olathe, Kan., the day my lease began - Jan. 1, 2005. I had been working as a crime and courts reporter for The Olathe News, a daily newspaper in one of Kansas City’s largest suburbs, since graduating from college in May 2004. I’d lived with my parents for those seven months after graduation to save up a little money but had to commute a super long way. My new apartment - the first I’d ever lived in without a roommate - was less than a mile from my office, and I was to move in on New Year’s Day. I’d worried about being lonely.

I’d met Bennett barely a week before, however. I know that seems like a short period of time to know someone before moving in with him, but I knew this would work. I was right. We’re still going strong 10 years later.

Bennett has piercing blue eyes and white fur with light-orange stripes. I think he might be part flame-point Siamese. He’s pretty chatty and very friendly. He’s large - like for real big-boned. He can reach our kitchen countertops with his front paws when he stands on his hind legs. I had to get him a dog carrier because he’s too big for a cat one. He’s broad-shouldered and very manly for a cat. 

He’s one of the best cats I’ve ever known. And just before Christmas 2004, someone deserted him in frigid temperatures. The copy editor/page designer at The Olathe News, Mandy, told me that the people who lived next-door to her parents moved out and just left their cat. He wandered around his old house crying, wanting to be let in. It broke my heart. I remember how cold it was then - temperatures dipping into the single digits at night. Mandy and her family are good people, and they brought the cat into their garage with a space heater and a box full of blankets until they could find a home for him. (They already had a few pets and couldn’t keep him.)

My cat plan for moving out on my own was to settle into my new place for a few months and then get a boy-and-girl pair, whom I would name Bennett and Darcy (as in Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice, because I’m the kind of nerd who names cats after Jane Austen novel characters - gender reversed, and with a more contemporary spelling of “Bennett”). But from the moment I set foot in Mandy’s parents’ garage, that cat stole my heart. He meowed happily at me, asked for petting, walked his front paws up into my kneeling lap and even demonstrated how well he could use the litter box. I decided he would be my Bennett, and Mandy’s family suggested I give him the middle name Nicholas, since it was right before Christmas, when St. Nicholas would visit. I thought that was a splendid idea. I asked Mandy’s folks if they could keep him for another week or so until my lease started on my apartment. They dropped him off the day I moved in, among my many boxes.

The veterinarian then told me he was about a year-and-a-half old, which would make him about 11-and-a-half years old now. We’ve been through much in that time - two apartments, a career change (mine, not his), a marriage, a townhouse, a house and a baby. But he has remained my loyal companion. He follows me everywhere. He is always at the door when I get home. He meows at the door in sorrow when I leave. He lays down on my shoulder every night as I read before bed, snuggling in under my chin. I just hope that some day, my son will love me as much as my cat does. 

This is not to say we haven’t had our moments. Bennett is a vindictive urinator. If I do something to piss him off (pun intended), like going on a trip, he will pee on a piece of furniture. Although every time I’ve left, I’ve ensured he has received daily care from trusted family and friends. It’s not like he’s left to starve. My husband and I moved in together a week before we got married. My husband also had a cat, my stepcat Sabrina, whom I’ve come to love as my own. This marked the first time Bennett ever had to share his space. It took many days of adjustment, but by the time we went on our Caribbean honeymoon cruise two weeks later, we were confident they would not kill each other in our absence. That didn’t happen, but something else did. I’d left my wedding dress in our basement/laundry room hanging up to get cleaned on our return from the honeymoon. My in-laws, who were helping petsit, informed me that the dress had been knocked down on the floor and pissed all over while we were gone. Fortunately, it was in a plastic garment bag, and the dress came out unscathed. But Bennett wanted to send a none-too-subtle message that he knew that dress was somehow responsible for all the upheaval in his life.  He’s a smart cookie.

Bennett also masturbates, and on the most inappropriate occasions. He kneads fuzzy blankets and likes to get them balled up underneath him, I guess like a female cat would be. He arches his back, and if you try to poke him while he is doing this, we will let out an angry yowl. His nose turns bright red. After a few minutes of this kneading and arching, his little red rocket wiener comes out, and he sits down and licks it for a good long while. I went to the vet with this concern. The veterinarian who looked him over right after I rescued him told me he’d already been neutered, but I was worried maybe he hadn’t been. I’d moved and had a different vet at this point. She squeezed his poor little kitty ball sack relentlessly, saying, “I think I feel something in there.” She was worried that maybe part of a testicle was left. Then she said she wanted some second opinions and asked the other vets and vet techs there to squeeze his ball sack. I felt awful for the guy. They ultimately determined it was just a small piece of fatty tissue floating around in there and not a testicle remnant. They could give me no reason why he masturbated. I just think he’s a pervert. Only fuzzy blankets turn him on. His stepsister Sabrina does nothing for him. He likes to show how he masturbates whenever we have guests over. My husband and I do a marriage preparation course for engaged couples in our church, and without fail, Bennett mounts a throw blanket we keep on our chaise lounge and goes at it when these impressionable young couples come over. He jumps down, sits in the middle of the living room, splays his legs apart and then licks his tiny peter for all to see.

He also likes to tear through the house yowling at the top of his lungs either whenever we’ve just put our son down for bed or at midnight - whichever he deems most disruptive. But cats do this. My beloved childhood cat, Buddy, did, and my family called it “being ripped” or “having the rips.” I guess his non-domesticated ancestors went out hunting for gazelle or something at that time of night.

But most everything else about him is wonderful. After I married, the next big transition for him (and me) was the birth of the baby. In those early months, when I battled crippling postpartum depression and had a very difficult time breast-feeding, Bennett would sit or lie at my feet while I nursed and wept at all hours of the day and night. Cats generally sleep about 27 hours a day, but he exhausted himself to be by my side and comfort me during this very trying time. I can tell that he’s sad that he’s no longer the center of my attentions, but I hope he knows I still love him dearly. As the baby got older, he started to notice the cats’ existence and wanted to interact with them. His way of interacting was to grab fistfuls of their fur and yank on it. Not once did Bennett ever get upset with him about it. He just walked away. (Sabrina swatted our son once, with her claws in so as to just warn him and not scratch him, but she’s been remarkably tolerant, too.) In fact, Bennett has never clawed or bitten me or my husband or child. Ever. He has the best disposition. We are working a lot with our son on petting the cats “gently” now. 

Many crazy pet people know their pet’s birthdays. Since he was essentially a stray, I have no idea what Bennett’s birthday is. But this, New Year’s, is our special day. This is our adoption day. I celebrated today by giving him a special tuna-shrimp treat and brushing him for half an hour (something he loves). Shortly, we’ll go up and begin our bedtime snuggles. Losing my childhood cat Buddy when he was about 18 years old (I was 23) was one of the most heart-wrenching things in my life thus far (I know, that means I’ve had a pretty good life). It terrifies me to think of a life without Bennett someday. This 10-year anniversary of our time together is bittersweet like that, marking the time that passes more quickly for him than for me. I’m determined to make the most of it for us. Even if you think that makes me a crazy cat lady.