Yesterday I met the cutest child on the planet. Which I do not mean as hyperbole, I mean it - and there must be a German word for this that I just don’t know - as in “child whose mere presence causes a population spike”. This was one cute kid. His hair, God forgive me, was even more adorable than that of my brother as a child. I almost sniffed his head*.
According to my family, I was cute like that once. Several friends of the family claim that they were inspired to have their own first child by hanging around my parents and I. Evidently this was related to my a) good manners and b) request that milk be served in a bowl next to the fridge, so that I could play the “kitty”. Obviously, I was the perfect child to dupe unsuspecting childless couples - they thought , “Hey! - it’s no more difficult than having a cat!”
All this cuteness went to heck when my brother arrived. I was cute for about a year after, but as soon as he got that glorious hair and could walk, it was all over. My brother is the reigning champion of cute, to this day. Of course, he’s not really “cute” anymore, I’m just saying he still has the little belt and trophy.
My brother was so cute that women would swoon just seeing him in the grocery store. This happened at least once a week. They would stop and try to talk to him because, obviously, there is neither logic nor justice in this world. Why would anyone, anyone, want to try to talk to him just because he had beautiful hair when I. could. spell.
He didn’t even talk back. He would rest his fat little arm on his little belly and stick his fingers into his mouth, letting drool run down them around his smile, and sort of do the twist. At which point I had to call for my mother because invariably this woman would be trying to fit him into her purse.
The injustice of all this was almost too much to bear. I remember trying to stop myself from answering questions directed at him, because it was rude to answer a question asked of someone else, but it was also rude not to answer at all - so get your fingers out of your mouth and answer the woman you muffin-head! I KNOW YOU CAN TALK! I distinctly remember curling my little fist into a ball and staring fixedly at the appealing display of bologna across the isle, attempting to master my 6 year old self. Thinking over and over, “Bologna. With a wedge cut out to look like Ms. Pacman. With mustard.”
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