Alright, everyone, listen up! I’m one year old today, and I want to thank all of you for coming. But, I’ve got some serious complaints about this whole “being born” thing. You think it’s all cute and cuddly? Well, I’ve got news for you. From day one, it’s been a total dumpster fire.
First of all, those nine months in the womb? Everyone makes it sound like some cozy little paradise. Yeah, right. It was cramped, wet, dark, and boring as hell. The so-called warmth and comfort were like living in a tiny, overheated shoebox filled with old motor oil. And the space? The more I grew, it felt like I was being crammed into a sardine can. And don’t get me started about that Godforsaken umbilical cord. One day, I was floating around, minding my own business, when the next thing I knew, I was in the world’s worst game of Twister, with a Boa Constrictor wrapped around my neck. Houdini’s escape from a straitjacket would’ve been easier. But no, I had to figure out how to untangle myself before the so-called “Big Day.”
Mom’s heartbeat was deafening with its relentless thump-thump-thump. It was like listening to an endless Ginger Baker solo. Her voice was everywhere. I couldn’t escape it. And don’t even get me started on the outside noise – muffled chatter, random music. It was like living next to an all-night party that I wasn’t invited to. But, Mom’s guffaws were the worst. Every time she laughed, I got knocked ass-over-tea kettle, from one side of the placenta to the other. Thanks, Mom. Thanks a lot!
Then came the “Big Day.” My birth. What a fiasco that was. Bright lights, loud noises everywhere, people yelling at each other. I was torn from Mom’s warm, cozy womb and tossed into a chaotic, antiseptic circus. The blinding lights were relentless, piercing through my eyelids and making me yearn for the darkness of the womb. The noise was deafening. People shouting orders, machines clicking, clacking, and beeping like crazy, accompanied by a cacophony of voices talking over each other. It was sensory overload on a level I’ve never experienced.
When I took my first breath, I screamed bloody murder. It felt like a blow torch aimed down my trachea. My lungs, which had never experienced air before, felt like they were ablaze in a raging forest fire. It burned like hell! I couldn’t help but wail. But that was nothing compared to my first “meconium movement.” Or in layman’s terms, “Taking a Dump,” “Dropping a Deuce,” or “Pinching a Loaf.”
What the hell had I gotten myself into, anyway? It was a nightmare. I was yanked, pulled, and jostled, all while my eyes were assaulted by those godforsaken lights, while my ears were pummeled by the noise. Holy Moley, was this the world I’d been waiting for?
Next, they held me upside down by my ankles and slapped the hell out of my butt cheeks. They told me it helped me “get acclimated to my new environment.” Then they laid me down on top of Mom for the ritual of “first skin-to-skin contact.” Everyone makes such a big deal about it. But let me tell you, after having my heinie assaulted, I was too pissed off to care. Sure, there was some momentary comfort in feeling her warmth and hearing her heartbeat up close, but I was still reeling from the shock of it all. My head was spinning, my body was cold, wet, and covered with vernix. I was a mess, pure and simple.
The first few weeks out of the womb were a real shit show. Especially feeding. Trying to figure out how to latch onto Mom’s evasive nipples was like solving a Rubik’s Cube in the dark. And sleep? Fuhgeddaboudit. My Mom and Dad were constantly waking me up. Crying was my only way to communicate, and I used it a lot. I was tired, frustrated, and hungry. I made sure everyone knew about it.
By the first month, my reflexes started to kick in. Whoop-dee-doo. My big thrill was the moment I figured out how to suck my thumb. I still couldn’t see squat, but the smells were overwhelming. Everything was on sensory overload.
During the second month, I started “social smiling.” That’s when you smile for other people, but inside, don’t give a rat’s ass. My vision was still blurry, and everyone was in my face all the time. E-V-E-R-Y S-I-N-G-L-E D-A-Y, these giants would coo and point at me like I was some kind of freak show. And the noise! I could finally start hearing more clearly, but all I heard was endless “Wawa,” “Blankie,” “Binky” and those annoying rattles everybody gave me.
Then, I had to learn about “Tummy Time.” That’s when Mommy laid me down on the living room carpet and watched me flop around like a salmon out of water. Lifting my head and pushing up with my arms was exhausting. Have you ever tried doing calisthenics when you can barely keep your eyes open? It’s a joke. My neck hurt. My arms hurt. Everything hurt. And my cooing? I was actually complaining, but nobody knew it.
By the fourth month, I started recognizing faces. Great, more people to annoy me. And rolling over? Just another thing to mess up my day. I’d roll around, and everyone would clap like I’d just made the first moon landing. Give me a break. I just hoped it would be that easy to impress the chicks when I made it to high school.
During my fifth month, I was latching onto every small thing I could find. “Exploring with my hands,” they call it. More like grabbing everything within reach and shoving it into my mouth. My emotions were all over the place. I was a little ball of frustration. People called it “Development.” I called it a living hell.
When the sixth month rolled around, Mom started shoving solid foods down my tiny little throat. Pureed carrots and peas? You should try Liver and Onion Puree or Herring Surprise. Disgusting. Seriously, I never saw anyone else eating that crap. Not even the dog.
Teething hit hard beginning in month seven. My gums were on freaking fire. I was drooling all over the place, gnawing on our dog’s old toys, and sucking on everyone’s fingers. My parents tried placating me by bouncing me up and down on their knees, but I didn’t give a flying fart what they tried. I was miserable. Every tooth felt like a tiny knife piercing through my gums. Everyone kept saying, “Oh, he’s teething.” No shit, Sherlock.
When the eighth month rolled around, I started crawling. I taught myself how to get around on my own just to get away from all my annoying relatives. Crawling was supposed to be this big milestone, but all it did was make me realize how filthy the floor was.
In my ninth month out of the womb, I pulled myself up to stand for the first time. I’d stand up, fall down, stand up, fall down. It was like a never-ending cycle of futility. But I hung in there. I also began to experience complex babbling, but it was mostly complaints. “Mama” and “Dada” were just cries for help. It didn’t matter. They were still clueless about what I was trying to tell them.
By the tenth month, I was cruising right along, holding onto furniture for dear life. Pointing and gesturing were my ways of saying, “Get me the hell out of here.” My grandparents thought it was adorable. I just treated it as a means to an end. I needed something to help me communicate. I thought about learning American Sign Language, but I had no idea how to register for classes.
I was introduced to “Peekaboo,” “Drop and Retrieve” toys, and “Sound Books.” But they just made everything worse. I could never figure out what in the Sam-Hill was going on. My parents would make them disappear, reappear, and act like they were the great David Copperfield. I could never figure them out. To this day, I think they were responsible for my PTSD.
Finally, the twelfth month arrived. The Big One. Honestly, my first steps were highly overrated. I was more concerned about falling flat on my face. Around the same time, I started uttering my first, whole words. Instead of spewing out gibberish like, Go-goo ga-ga, La-la-boo-boo, and Ja-ja-loo-loo, I could start voicing my complaints like, “Might I express my profound displeasure at the current state of my nappy? It is quite intolerable.” Or, “I am deeply discontented with the current selection of bedtime stories. A narrative with greater complexity would be more suitable.”
So here we are, arriving at my first birthday party. Capped off by a year filled with frustrations, discomforts, and non-stop aggravation. What a joke. Every moment has been an endless cycle of turmoil and vexation. From my expulsion from the cramped womb, to the sensory overload at birth. I never signed up for this crap. Any of it!
I’m guess I’m stuck here now on this mortal coil for the next 80-odd years, and there’s not a danged thing I can do about it; at least legally. Let’s just hope my second year isn’t as big a nightmare as my first. I mean, seriously, if the next 365 days are anything like the last, I might just crawl back into my mother’s womb.
