Babies are weird

I’m talking really little babies. Our darling princess is four weeks old yesterday, and she is the data point for today’s discussion.

Her innocence makes her ignorant, which then makes her fearless, yet she cries at the slightest provocation. What is it with the crying, evolutionarily? How did we ever survive with that siren wail declaring Hungry! Too cold! Too hot! Somewhat uncomfortable! Lonely! Gas! Oh, the gas! I mean, it’s shocking to watch a little one like that get wound up. I once (or twice) tried to see if she would just wind down on her own, as I had run out of options (see the previous sentence). No dice. When they’re this small, they do not, I repeat, do NOT cry themselves out. She started with the hitching, moved on to the hitch-wail, then the full wail, the tornado siren, and closed it off with the enraged, guttural sound of breaking glass that she carried through the last ounce of air in her lungs before she took another desperate breath and repeated. It’s really horrible to behold. Such unquenchable fury in that little face, with her little beet-red fists punching at the air, and her legs spasming out uncontrollably.

Now, picture me standing there gaping in shock at the mountain of rage that she had mustered.

Now, picture my wife coming in the room and demanding to know why I wasn’t trying to do something about it. (She already knew about the thing where little babies don’t cry themselves out, it seems. But I digress. )

Back to the evolution question, how is it that giant birds didn’t just swoop down and haul off our offspring, as they shrieked, “Here I am!” at the top of their lungs, lo those many years ago, in the time of the mighty mammoth? Perhaps giant birds can’t hear. At any rate, it appears as if babies have no survival instincts at all, unless you count crying for food, or being so damn cute.

Take my daughter, for example. She knows the instant my hand is momentarily occupied, and takes that opportunity to spit the pacifier onto the floor, or to kick out and arch her back and fling back her head as I’m carrying her down the stairs. She wiggles like a fish, seemingly to evade my grasp, but then when I try to reposition her, she goes from a coiled spring to a wet noodle, so that suddenly I’m on the verge of giving her whiplash.

How did parents do it, back when the giant sloth ruled the jungle? How did the hunters hunt, or the gatherers gather, after going through every-three-hour feedings?

I can hear my wife now. “She’s just a baby.” Of course she is. She’s young, innocent, and ignorant, and tied for the best thing that ever happened in my life. And as long as I live in her house, I’ll have to adjust to her rules. At least until she’s four or so.