Don’t Call Your Baby A “Baby”

I received this ridiculous gorgeous gem from a friend–it’s not very long. The Guardian reports* that some couples, or human persons, or some sort of living creatures of some kind, are going about the increasingly tortured affair of producing offspring by leaving behind the word “baby” in favor of the much less pleasant “theyby.”**

The Guardian does its best,

There was of course nothing gender-specific about the “ba-“ part of “baby”, which is already a diminutive form of the original English word “babe”. The Oxford English Dictionary says that its origin is probably onomatopoeic – two syllables of “ba”, which is a typical “early infantile vocalisation”. So while a baby can call itself a baba, even if by accident, it will take much longer to pronounce itself a “theyby”.

Then it gives up. The whole thing is probably less than three hundred words. What more is there to say?

I mean, I might be willing to say that it’s too bad that having a baby has become such a difficult and terrifying proposition. It used to be, you might remember, like thirty years ago, that you would, hem, have some kind of encounter with another person, who was not, as it were, exactly like you, though indeed very similar. This encounter, cough, would leave you in the way of having another person to contend with. But back in the bad old days, this was something that people were used to doing, and so some other people, those kinds that we used to call “women” would cluster around you in a friendly way. They might have a party and give you some presents. Maybe some “female” member of your “family,” your “mother” perhaps, would rally around with help and advice. Whoever you had the “baby” with, probably a “man,” might even stick around and you could maybe formalize the relationship. What’s that called? I can’t remember. I feel like it starts with an M but I’ve forgotten.

You’d have the kid, it would grow, it would go to school, in the summers it would run around and drive you crazy. Eventually it would move out and get a life of its own. It was probably either a “he” or a “she” and maybe you gave it a name. Not something stupid like John or Mary. No, it got a special name like Cedar or Apple. No wait, I’m mixing my eras. Thirty years ago it got a name like Jennifer. I think that was the main one. I have a whole gaggle of friends named Jennifer. I don’t remember what the boys were called because who needs them? I mean, thirty, cough, well, forty years ago, I wouldn’t have thought you needed them. Except for that blond one in Italy who looked like a Rueben’s Angel. His name was Nicholas.

Anyway, good thing that we’ve left all that madness behind. I mean, one of things I really appreciate about modern life are all the opportunities to tie oneself into intricate, confining, anxious knots. It’s important for mothers, or whatever it is that you call them, to feel bad about everything–the manner of delivering this other person into the world, what “they” should be fed (I know, I know, you only have one and so a singular pronoun should be used, but these are new and better times), what “they” ought to wear, how you will feel about “them,” how “they” will be educated, how to get “them” when they are fast asleep after screaming for the whole afternoon in and out of the car and into the gas station because your bank card doesn’t match your zip code just this one time and so you have to pay with cash and there’s someone at the pump next to you who will totally call CPS if you run into a place covered in windows for less than 30 seconds…

What a fantastic time to be alive. These little “theybys” are going to grow up so happy and blessed, so free to live lives of beauty and promise. I mean, I am putting them, and their “mothers” permanently on my prayer list, but that’s just because of all the happiness–so much happiness. Tinkerty Tonk.

*I can’t speak to the nature of this “reporting,” rather a grand word for three short paragraphs.
**Sorry Grammarly, you are not going to enjoy yourself this morning.