Laura Garrison grew up in Erie, Pennsylvania, and currently lives in Maryland with her husband Justin.  Some of her other work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in _Jersey Devil Press_, _Pig in a Poke_, _5923 Quarterly_, _Niteblade_, and _Puffin Circus_, among others.  She likes ladybugs, the smell of rain, and reading by candlelight.  Her greatest ambition is to someday have her own cheese cave.

Small Truths (September 20, 2010. Issue 21.)

"I've never really cared for babies."

I was in the greeting card section at Target. The woman who had spoken was in her early sixties. She had a round face and hair the color of wet ashes, and she was pushing a shopping cart that held only one item, an enormous bundle of disposable diapers.

I wasn't all that crazy about babies myself, but to hear those words spoken casually aloud by a respectable-looking grandmother type was shocking; I could not have been more alarmed if she had confessed that she enjoyed shoplifting or movies starring Rob Schneider. It was the sort of shameful truth that one generally kept hidden from the public. So I was surprised to hear myself blurt out, "Me neither."

She smiled conspiratorially at me. We were in this together now. As she reached past me for a card, she glanced at the printed registry in my hand. "I see we're on our way to the same shower," she said, pointing to the name at the top of the page. "How do you know Jennifer?"

"She's my cousin," I said. "What about you?"

"I'm a friend of her mother's. I suppose you call her Aunt Susan."

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Ms. . . . er . . . "

"Velma," she said, extending her hand.

"I'm Abby," I said, shaking it.

"It's a pleasure, Abby. Now let's see if we can find some cards that don't make us want to yak up our pancakes."

I laughed. "We can try. But I've been looking for ten minutes, and they're all pretty much the same. Who knew that so many baby animals lived under pastel umbrellas?"

"This one looks promising," Velma said, selecting a mint-green card with silver raindrops on it. She opened it and intoned, in the funereal tones of a priest quoting Old Testament verses, "'A shower of kisses, and lots of hugs, too, / A shower of blessings on baby and you!' Good heavens, that's not even a real sentence. Who writes these things?"

"Wait, listen to this one," I said. "'Here's something to welcome your new girl or boy, / Your beautiful, snuggly bundle of joy!'"

Velma shuddered theatrically. "Maybe I'll just get a blank card and write my own message," she said. "How about, 'Some babies have colic, and some have the croup; / Most babies smell, and they all like to poop.'"

"Go with that. I think Jennifer will find your honesty very refreshing."

She snorted. "I'm sure she would." She turned back to the display of cards with a sigh. "I'll just get this one," she said, tossing a card with a picture of smiling peas in a pod into her cart without bothering to read the message inside. "Everyone likes anthropomorphic legumes, right?"

I grabbed a card shaped like a duck and followed her as she began to guide her cart down the aisle towards the Infant/Toddler section of the store. It wasn't an easy task. The package of diapers was so huge that the corners stuck out over the edges of the cart at awkward angles; it was like watching someone trying to push a Labrador retriever in a baby carriage.

Suddenly I remembered something. "Velma," I said, "isn't Jennifer registered for cloth diapers?"

She shrugged. "Probably. I hear those are big with new parents these days. Better for the environment and all that. But as someone who raised four children of her own, I can assure you that their resolve to hand-wash their little darling's unmentionables will start to crack within a week. Then these will come in real handy." She patted the ridiculously large bundle of diapers.

"Wait, you have four kids? But I thought you said--"

"That I didn't like babies?"

I nodded, scanning the racks of baby clothes. I spotted a three-pack of yellow onesies that were on Jennifer's registry and put them in my basket.

"Well, you agreed with me. What is it that bothers you about them?"

"I don't know, they're just . . . they make me uncomfortable. They're so fragile, and they have those weird soft spots on the tops of their heads, and whenever I hold one--I never ask if I can hold one, but sometimes people just sort of shove them at you, and you don't have much choice--it always starts crying. Every single time. And I don't mean whimpering, I mean all-out, ambulance-siren wailing." I paused. "Maybe part of the problem is that I'm afraid that _they_ don't like _me_."

Velma was studying a selection of impossibly tiny socks. She didn't say anything.

"What about you?" I asked. "Why don't you like babies?"

"Me? I'm terrified of them," she replied. She added a pair of polka-dotted baby booties to her cart. "We make these things, and we love them, and we think we know them--that they are miniature versions of ourselves--but they are inscrutable beings. They may have our DNA, but their souls are their own. Who can imagine what they're thinking, who they are, or who they will become? The truth is, they are little strangers. We bring them into our homes and our lives as if we understand the magnitude of their existence, but we don't. We can't. They are overflowing with infinite possibilities. They are as helpless as kittens and as unfathomable as gods. Sometimes, when I hold one, I feel the weight of all the mysteries of the universe in my arms, and I tremble with awe. And that," she added, "is usually when they spit up on me."

I was speechless.

"Are you ready to check out?" she asked.

"Huh? Oh. Yeah, I think so," I said. I picked up a flannel blanket printed with colorful teddy bears and added it to my basket. "Let's go get in line."

The girl at the checkout register squealed with delight when she scanned the little booties that Velma had placed on the conveyor belt. "These are so adorable! Don't you just love babies?"

Velma winked at me before she responded. "What's not to love?"