Baby . . . I Definitely Thought It Over

So, we were given the opportunity to borrow a "Baby Think It Over" doll. It's not often a person gets to play with a $500 doll, one that cries like a human baby, has to be held in a few specific positions, and whose temperament you get to choose (unlike babies who arrive the traditional way).

My daughter D. was giddy with excitement. She has been asking me to provide her with a new baby sister. Since my belly is not growing any larger (except around Christmas), she has repeatedly asked that we become a foster family, emphasizing that she will be the sole caregiver of our little charges.

"Baby Think It Over" was the next best thing.

D. was dismayed to discover that her new Baby had a penis--strike one. She was puzzled to find that he was clearly of an Asian heritage. But she adopted him with gusto nonetheless, and agonized over his name. She decided, at long last, on "Loren," because the name would allow her to pretend he was a "Lauren," without insulting his gender. All of my suggested names were quashed.

My daughter wanted a sensitive baby, but being an experienced mother I decided on a "normal" temperament. No tomato allergies for us. Colic? No way. We set the controls that would enable him to cry every 90 to 270 minutes, locked the tamper-proof panel, and thus gave Baby Loren a consciousness of sorts.

Unfortunately, he was in a two-hour sleep cycle, and D. soon grew weary of holding a motionless baby with the creepy ability to sleep with his eyes open.

Two hours later, Baby Loren started wailing, and faithful D. raced to his side and clutched her beloved. He stopped crying. D. had succeeded as a mother: she had calmed him within the sixty second timeframe allotted before he would go into a one-minute distress cycle (that would be recorded as a "neglect" event in his circuitry).

Of course, D. had gymnastics that day and could not bear the thought of leaving Baby Loren at home. I felt a little awkward being a grandmother at my age, but agreed to take care of my beautiful grandson with "Auntie L's" assistance.

Though I did garner a few curious stares, Baby Loren was brilliant . . . during the first half of gymnastics. One mother gasped when she saw him sitting alone on the table and said, "I thought he was real!" I explained the situation. A little girl then asked to hold him, which was fine with me--though I received a tongue-lashing from my daughter later for allowing a stranger (a child, of all things!) to hold her infant.

Then, sure enough, all hell broke loose. Baby Loren started to fuss, and people's looks went from curious to baffled.

"He's just hungry!" I said, grasping for the care key which would enable me to "feed" him.

He wasn't hungry, though. Drat. And apparently I had neglected him because he wouldn't calm down. I jammed the care key in, but had to hold it in an exact position to keep that Baby quiet.

Shortly after, gymnastics ended, and I needed to herd my children out of the building, not to mention collect my possessions. A new set of parents were arriving, and my preschooler escaped my grasp in the crowd as she sought out her boots and coat. I couldn't hold the care key in place and take care of my living, breathing, moving children.

And so Baby Loren screeched, loud, mournful laments. Wailing of an incompetent grandmother. Wailing on behalf of Think It Over babies in incompetent hands everywhere. I knew that within his neural circuitry an abuse incident was being recorded, and my stomach dropped.

D. stared at me in dismay as I ran to the window (away from the crowd) and struggled to end the crying . . . by removing Baby's Control panel and extracting the batteries.

"Don't kill my baby!" she cried. "That's not fair."

I couldn't get the circuitry box open in my panic, and then at last it worked, and I ended Baby Loren's brief existence on this planet. A little plastic soul flew up into the sky.

Driving home that evening with a scowling daughter in tow, I thought it over. I thought that no matter how much I yearned for another baby, we just couldn't keep Baby Loren.

And so we now resurrect a different baby every day. There's no way I'm getting up at 2:00 a.m. to care for a plastic model when sleep is scarce enough as it is.

And that's okay. I thought it over, and made a series of unethical decisions, and despite my record of neglect, I feel just fine. Welcome to Motherhood.