Published in Issue 15 of Fonograf Editions.

The baby’s blameless, I can’t argue with that. She hasn’t told a single lie in her life, let alone cheated, however inadvertently, on her taxes, failed to properly dispose of toxic paint, padded a year-end report, spat up red wine all over a vintage mohair blanket in an ex-boyfriend’s parents’ ski lodge on New Year’s Eve and then shoved it under the couch without mentioning it to anyone, or flicked a candy wrapper out the window of a Subaru stuck in traffic while pretending to adjust the side-view mirror. Her conscience, if a baby can be said to have a conscience at all, is infinitely clearer than any middle-aged woman’s, I grant. On the other hand, most middle-aged women I know have done at least some good in the world so far and may well be in the process of doing more at this moment—harvesting stem cells, for example, or campaigning for bail reform, or bringing a class-action lawsuit against a multinational petroleum conglomerate, teaching refugees, feeding honeybees, or even just sitting in traffic on the expressway en route to a Mommy-and-Me Kindermusik class across town while Daddy polishes his tenure file—whereas baby, so feeble she can’t even buckle up the harness on her own crusty car seat—craps in her sleep and wakes screaming. In some cultures, a baby isn’t even given a name until her fifth birthday, I once read. It is the elders, in those cultures, whose safe passage on the journey must above all be ensured, and baby who must earn her seat of honor on board.