Until my baby springs up like a tight coil and wails from his crib for Ba-ba. Oh wait, you don't know what a Ba-ba is? This two-syllabic word constantly rings in my ears, to the point that when I am in public and the little one is on the verge of a--dare I say it--a meltdown, I press my face into the stroller and, in an equally high-pitched, high-strung voice, I say, "Do you want a Ba-ba? A Ba-ba? Do you want it? A Ba-ba, yes?" to looks of repressed horror and confusion from onlookers.
A Ba-ba. What the heck is that? Men turn their faces away as if embarrassed to be caught watching a spectacle that has baffled and tweaked their curiosity for centuries. Women scowl, unafraid to show their disapproving visages, which only scares the baby and induces him to shriek some more.
A Ba-ba. Here? In the mall? In the middle of this traffic of moving, aimless bodies taking shelter under the bright lights of a building that seem to offer so many enticements--bold red ads screaming SALE 50% OFF, because in truth the store would close give or take a few weeks if no customers come their way.
I take out the diaper bag. I rummage inside. An old woman frowns, thinking, What is she doing? In the old days, all it took to feed a baby was a hungry mouth, a nursing bra, and maybe a blanket for a little privacy, inside the comforts of a bedroom in their own homes.
I take out the Ba-ba. Ah, the onlookers disperse. My baby grabs the bottle, a happy smile on his face. He says, "Ba-ba", for good measure, and leans back on his stroller. His eyelids flutter and close.
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