Bringing out baby

by RAF KATIGBAK

I just found out that my sister in Toronto, Rowena, is pregnant. The news came by way of e-mail, the subject heading was “Our Little Peanut at 13 weeks and 2 days,” and attached was a blurry black and white photo that looked like it was set in the alien landscape of an out-of-focus H.R. Geiger painting. In the lower right hand of the frame was a small bean-like mass, which, I was pleased to see, already had the majestic nose of my forefathers.

I was overjoyed and choked at the same time. Overjoyed of course because she and her man have been trying for a while, but choked because she didn’t live nearby and that had far-reaching implications on my life. Not only because that meant I couldn’t constantly share with her the glorious natural miracle that is childbirth and all that crap, but also because her living in a different city meant that I wouldn’t have access to the greatest chick magnet of all time: a miniature human being.

This was the theory posited to me by my friend D last week while sunning on the stone steps in front of a Mile-End coffee house. We had somehow gotten onto the subject of my extremely poor luck with the opposite sex, and in response he hushed completely straight-faced, “Dude, get yourself a kid. These guys are like little pussy magnets.” He offered this crude nugget of wisdom while we watched his nephew run around kicking stones into the street.

Being childless and, I suspect, just a few notches away from being legally retarded, never seemed to pose a problem for D. He’s a natural charmer and a firm believer in babies as the ultimate pick-up accessory to the extent that he makes sure he’s seen with a toddler as much as possible. Often the little cherubic accessory is his sister’s three-year-old Tyson, but sometimes it’s a loaner from his stable of recently familied acquaintances.

“At first I was freaked out that all my friends were having babies. I thought, ‘Great. All my bros are gonna be dads and I’m not gonna have any wingmen left to roll with.’ Man was I ever wrong. Kids are the best wingmen you could ever hope for. They’re awesome icebreakers and you never have to worry they’ll double-cross you and leave with the girl you’re macking. Since I’ve been taking little Tyson out to the park, I’ve been getting mad numbers and crashing the custard truck in tuna town like there’s no tomorrow!”

What’s more disturbing beyond hearing a grown man mix sex euphemisms is how D treats childcare. It’s as if he’s asking a friend to borrow a power tool. Earlier that day, I overheard him with a friend on his cell, “What do you mean you forgot he has t-ball this weekend? Dude, I told you I have to go to that barbecue with the blonde Air Canada stewardess on Saturday, do you know what that means? I need that kid. You have no idea how much you’re bumming me out right now. A stewardess, dude!”

On why kids are such perfect chick magnets, D explained, “Something happens when girls see a baby. It’s like maternal instincts kick in and they get all glassy-eyed and filled with emotion and shit. I swear, sometimes the way they look at kids, it’s scary. It’s like they almost want to eat ’em or something. But they look at the kid and then they look at you and they see you as a provider. Which is totally awesome. It’s some weird hard-wired primal shit. Babies and dogs. Those are the two best ways to meet girls in this town. I’ll bet you a million dollars that most dudes own dogs for that reason. It’s strategy, man. I tell you, if someone were to invent a mini-saddle for babies to ride dogs, girls would be helpless. Forget gin, this shit is instant panty remover.”

I decided to test how far he’d take his theory. “What if,” I posited, “they could graft a baby’s head on a dog’s body? Would that work?”

“Oh man! That would be the ultimate! Or a dog’s head on a baby’s body. That would be some Anubis Egyptian god type shit right there, and man, I love Middle Eastern chicks.”

With that, a group of three young girls stopped to fawn over Tyson. “Oh my God!” the brunette squealed. “Look at his little overalls!” D got up and walked over. “Hey Tyson, come here, don’t bother those pretty ladies.” Then he turned and winked at me while I texted my sister that she needs to come to Montreal more often. Once that kid is born, of course.

Riff-Raff@sympatico.ca