I don't talk baby

Just as I promise to write something everyday, I come up with kaput. Then Inspiration comes along, knocks on my door, and promptly hands me a baby.

I don't talk baby. I mean, how exactly do you communicate with a one month old kid? The said kid's verbal capacities are limited to cooing, gurgling, grunting, and occasionally, screaming bloody murder. He doesn't know how to make the proper sounds yet and I refuse to make embarrassing baby sounds. I continually struggle with coherence as it is, why would I want to make (borderline retard) cooing sounds?

But it's nice to talk to a baby.

Maron, my nephew, was here a few minutes ago with his parental units 1 and 2, along with my mom. I turned off the PC, left the bat cave (read: my room) and went downstairs where the baby was lying on the couch having a great conversation with the ceiling fan. Everybody evaporated to other parts of the house, leaving me with the wide eyed, plump, and wriggling baby.

I think it's the most apt use for the term "captive audience." He can't crawl yet, he can't tell me to put a sock in it, and he can't protest with me holding the milk bottle hostage. He stared at me and I stared back at him. I had no idea what to say. I, the High Banana of Pointless Anecdotes and Useless Information, was at loss. Rica suggested that I reveal my plans for world domination and other nefarious life lessons to the kid, in the hopes that he'll continue what I started lest I fail. Anyway.

It's nice talking to a baby. Maron has learned to reply with a grunt at the right moments, flailing his arms for emphasis. He laughs at some points too, and I guess he sees the irony the grown ups cannot.

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After our conversation, the other people in the house rematerialized and proceeded to harass the hapless baby. They had him wear sunglasses while he tried as best a baby could to wriggle and flail his arms out of it. And then they mercilessly took pictures. I thought it was hilarious until parental unit 1, otherwise known as Kuya, pointed out that the kid can retaliate when we're old and feeble.

Ha. I'll cross that bridge when I get there. (I suddenly feel nostalgic, much like Martin Sloan in that Twilight Zone episode, Walking Distance. "I was living in a dead run and I was tired." In case you haven't seen that or forgot, it's the episode where a tired old guy passes within walking distance of his home town, and finds himself in his past and grows envious of his young counterpart's carefree existence.)