{"id":383,"date":"2009-11-09T05:06:00","date_gmt":"2009-11-09T05:06:00","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/verastic.com.s96953.gridserver.com\/site\/?p=383"},"modified":"2009-11-09T05:06:00","modified_gmt":"2009-11-09T05:06:00","slug":"some-things-are-better-left-unsaid-1","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/verastic.com\/site\/social\/some-things-are-better-left-unsaid-1.html","title":{"rendered":"Some Things Are Better Left Unsaid (1)"},"content":{"rendered":"
This post is probably one of them.<\/div>\n
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You ever notice how people conveniently avoid the woman with the baby on the flight? You can’t blame them really. What are the chances that the baby will not scream them to oblivion? It’s not like they can yell at the baby. Well, they can — but imagine who would be the bad guy after that. Besides, that would probably cause the baby to scream longer and louder.<\/div>\n
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I remember this flight I was on, and there was a woman, her baby, and another woman whom I assumed to be her mother. I sat next to them because that was the nearest open seat I found. I happen to be one of those people who avoid the baby-having passengers like a plague. When we were however-many-thousands of feet in the air, I decided to pull out that tiny little table – if you would call it that – attached to the back seat of the passenger in front of you. With my text book on it, I decided to tackle my 30-questions long assignment. <\/div>\n
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But this baby, this cute little blonde, blue-eyed baby … it<\/i> just could not resist the shine of my pencil. It<\/i> kept pulling it away from me. I did not really mind. I was bothered by something else. I could not tell if this baby was a boy or a girl. Its<\/i> ears were not pierced, so it<\/i> was hard to tell. The style and colors of its<\/i> clothes were unisex – a dull green color. Its<\/i> hair was short, and it<\/i> had not yet received its<\/i> first hair cut – I was sure – so the style of its<\/i> hair was misleading. Besides, I know how Black babies’ hair can morph into a Punk-lookalike hair cut. If you did not know better, you’d swear the baby’s mother was trying to make her child look like Bobby Brown – back when he was somebody. Or maybe that only happens to Nigerian babies. But I digress.<\/div>\n
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So this baby kept pulling my pencil. If I could steal it – yes, the baby<\/i>, take it<\/i> to the bathroom and open its<\/i> diapers, I would have. I was so curious to know if it<\/i> was a boy or a girl. Not knowing was terribly uncomfortable. It<\/i> kept smiling at me. Its<\/i> smile said nothing about its<\/i> gender. I think it<\/i> was probably because it<\/i> did not have teeth. It was not the flirtatious smile of a boy baby to a female; neither was it the mischievous smile of a girl baby to a girl [sorry girls!]. I just had to know; if not for anything, I needed to stop the mental argument going on in my head where I referred to the baby as he, she, and it – all at once. No, calling it<\/i> the baby<\/i><\/b> just wouldn’t do either. So why didn’t I just ask? I don’t know. I just could not bring myself to ask the question. How would I have asked?<\/div>\n
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