Dear me. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is slipping. I had more to say about that baby in my ear at the concert yesterday. What are the odds, I ask you. No need to get to cipherin'. It's rhetorical question. What are the odds that the one crying baby in the entire gym took up residence a mere six inches from my noggin?
Not only did Babe wait until the precise moment that The Pony's band was walking into the chair maze to commence screeching, Babe refused to be pacified. Not with a real pacifier, of course. That would be logical. No. I'm talking about pacifying in the manner the mom soothed her bundle of joy. "Be quiet! Stop kicking your legs!" Because if there's one thing a crying baby understands, it's "Stop kicking your legs!"
I don't blame the infant. The infant was pretty much following infant protocol. I blame the adult. The adult that brought a tiny baby to a two-hour band concert. Seriously? Did she think that Babe would garner enjoyment from the thumping of bass drums and the caterwauling of clarinets? Even if Babe was there to make an appearance for an older sibling, Babe had no idea where she was. Babe might just as well have been 20,000 leagues under the sea in a chambered nautilus. Or crossing a wide prairie with Ike from Pike, two yoke of cattle, an old spotted hog, a tall Shanghai rooster, and an old yeller dog. Or hurtling through space, the final frontier, at 31,000 miles per hour to colonize Mars.
Take the baby out! That's the common-sense thing to do. When the baby starts to cry, walk out to the cafeteria, pace the floor, show Babe the shiny trophies in the case, check the diaper, sing a lullaby, teach the tiny tot how amortization works. Anything. But remove Babe from the stress of the concert. And the back-head region of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.
This has been a public service announcement to the citizens of Hillmomba.