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I am perfect.

If any living creature can claim perfection, it’s a baby. Of any species. They’re brand new and in their eyes the world is too. Babies don’t dislike or judge; they aren’t cynical or jaded. They don’t have the experience that makes them suspicious of people or situations. Even when they get scared or cranky, it’s just newness overload.

When he lands in my lap I hug him close. “Babies are so perfect, aren’t they?”
“He’s quite a charmer, but headstrong. Takes after his godfather, wouldn’t you say?” She looks at me expecting a response. “Michael’s his godfather. We had the baptism in December, a week before Christmas. He didn’t tell you?”
“Um…I guess I forgot.” The little one settles against me, a warm compact weight that fills me with gladness. I give him a crayon.
“I’ll make sure he doesn’t eat it,” says Marie gravely. (Closed Doors, chapter 24)

They’re kind and trusting in a way only the truly innocent are. They aren’t worried about what others think or how they look. Or how you look. As long as you’re not too far off the norm. Babies, human and animal, have a not so subtle way of pointing out someone who is not of, shall we say, average appearance. But unlike the rest of us, they adapt pretty quickly.

In fact, I don’t think they have that constant babbling voice we develop somewhere along the line. The one that, on a good day, sounds like an overprotective mother who had children later in life or, on a bad day, a meth-smoking conspiracy theorist.

The curious gal in the photo is always happy to see anyone who stops by. I suspect she’s hoping for a treat. But if not she’ll settle for giving you a chomp just to see how you taste.

If you’re curious: Closed Doors (read more here)

Photo credit: the author

 

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