"The Baby Diaries"

This is a really cute article I found in "Baby Talk." It was written by Melissa Balmain.


Notes on a scandal, from the perspective of someone very small

October 25 Dear Diary, Mom still has no clue about you! She thinks you're a "cute little pad" covered in "scribbles." Good thing, since this is about her. The woman worries me. Today I heard her tell Grandma that she can't decide if I should be a cow, a duck, or a bumblebee. I'm a baby, for crying out loud.

October 27 It gets worse, Diary. Mom's developing a cruel streak. Today she brought home these yummy-looking white balls (Syrofoam, she called them) and a big piece of green cloth I could tell would be delicious. But did I get even one tast? Nope. I was this close to gumming a ball when she whisked it away and made me suck on plastic keys instead. I hate those keys. They don't taste half as good as real ones, and they don't open anything.

October 29 Omigod, this can't be happening. Just overheard Mom telling Dad that the balls and cloth are part of a plot to turn me into a "giant peapod." I've seen the grownups eating peapods. They can't get enough of those things. Somebody help me!!!

October 30 The Score: Me 1, Mom 0. That's right: This afternoon, all by myself, I foiled Operation Eat the Baby. Ha! Mom foolishly left me naked on the living roomfloor while she went in the kitchen, and her evil peapod materials were just a few feet away from me. I dragged myself along until I was on top of them, then let loose with everything I'd been planning to put in my next diaper. Oddly, Mom wasn't that upset. She did groan at first, but then started kissing me and saying, "You're crawling! You are!"--and called Dad to tell him I'm a genius. But maybe thisis all part of Plan B: Make me feel loved and admired while she figures out how to turn me into a giant turkey sub.

October 31 Weird, weird day. To be on the safe side, I refused to let Mom put anything on me at all. (Except for diapers. She really is sockingly strong.) Just before dark, our doorbell began ringing--a lot. Every time, Mom swooped me up and opened the door to a bunch of kids with strange outfits and seriously dirty faces. No matter how much I cried, none of them came in for a play date. They just stood there, waiting for Mom to hand them little lumps covered in shiny paper. (I tried to snag one, and she gave me the darned plastic keys again.) Then some kid's parent asked what I was. (A baby! Hello!) Mom pointed to my bare chest and legs and my diaper and said, "A sumo wrestler!" and they all laughed. I tell you, it was humiliating. But at least sumo wrestlers aren't a kind of food. I hope.