A Brief Account of the Crimes Committed by the Baby So Far in his Nine Months of Life

So young and yet so steeped in crime

Welcome back after the Chatner’s Christmas hiatus! We moved the baby and the dogs across the country yet again; the dogs helped by throwing up in the car once a day, less from motion sickness than from (perfectly justifiable but nevertheless inopportune) resentment.

I also used that time to finish a book project that as yet remains classified but which I can promise you will be the first to hear about once the cone of silence has been lifted.

Yesterday I was barred from entering our home by my very own son. You can see for yourself the truth of my account:

Here I am, innocently trapped on the porch, having left the house only for a moment to take out the trash. I was committing chores for the sake of my beautiful family, who are my only thought, waking or sleeping; I do nothing for myself, but labor solely for them.

Yet cruelly, unjustly, and without trial was I prevented from returning by the baby’s wicked refusal to open the door for me. You can see for yourself his prodigious great strength, his massive stature, his giant muscles. He is the strongest baby who has ever lived (many passersby have confirmed this on outings, and what reason would they have to lie? They are disinterested and objective observers, they could gain nothing from overstating the case).

For example, he is so powerful that he has won every single game of tug-of-war we have ever played. And yet he did not choose to temper his strength with compassion for the week. I tell you he laughed, yes and smiled too, to see me trapped outside, exposed to the brutal forces of a West Coast January afternoon. It must have been 60° Fahrenheit. I very nearly wished I had a light sweater with me. Truly it has been said, how sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child.

I pleaded with him earnestly. I marshalled every argument in my favor. I reasoned with him. In vain did I point out my months of loyal service to him. I offered him wealth and reward beyond his imagination, I promised him a life of kingly ease and luxury, a life where he might be carried around and fed and cosseted at all times, where he would never be expected to lift a finger for himself; he was unmoved, and only bashed his little ravioli-shaped fists against the glass. He laughed as he did it. It was no accident. He laughed in triumph.

Others — I will not say who — others who might have been expected to come to my aid merely took pictures of the incident, and laughed. Only after countless minutes had passed and he lost interest in my suffering did he move away from the door, allowing me to make good my escape.

But did he move away in order to be helpful to me? Or even for a neutral reason? I am sorry to say he did not. He moved away from the door only so he could remove all of the shoes from the shoe rack, even though I must have told him a dozen times that this is where the shoes live, that this is their home.

This does not even begin to cover the list of crimes he has committed during his nine short months of life. They are extensive almost beyond belief. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world:

• He has refused his Assent to Laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good, Laws involving the putting on of socks when we go outside, lest an older couple should stop me on the street and say “Where are that baby’s clothes?” which happened once outside of a library and the shame of which I will carry with me forever

• He has stolen the very hat from my head, merely because I dipped my head before him and asked, “Do you like my hat?” Later he has refused to return the hat, using his superior strength to prevent my taking it. Also he has chewed upon the bill of it.

• In fact he will steal anything which is on my head, if I tell him it is my hat

• He has grabbed the hairs on my arms and legs to steady himself as he stands up, which hurts in a way I can scarcely put into words

• He has chewed on the corners of my Patrick O’Brian novels, even when Captain Jack Aubrey has been in a great deal of trouble and needed me to keep reading in order to save him

• He has splashed all the water out of the dog’s water dish, merely because it is fascinating to him, within easy reach, and I keep forgetting to put it away

• He has bitten me — me! His own parent! — with such force I have lost entire fingers, and when I exclaim, “Oh, my son, you have bitten off all my fingers” he laughs again. His remorselessness is chilling

• He has snatched the very bread from my lips; only this morning he ate bites out of my toast, which I had prepared for my own particular use, merely because I placed the toast right in front of his tiny little moon-face and looked away, saying “I sure hope nobody eats my toast right now…”

• He has deliberately and wantonly fallen asleep in his little car seat even after I have warned him that he is not allowed to nap until we get home in five minutes

• He has chomped on his mother’s ball of yarn, which she is using to knit a sweater for his very own use, until it has been deformed beyond all recognition, and is now more of a clump than a ball

• He has refused to put the sweater on so she can see how it looks

• He refuses to put on all sweaters and when we attempt to pull his arms very gently through the softest sleeves, howls as if he is being killed with sticks and rocks

• He has flung contraband to the dogs on the floor more often than I can count, items which have been strictly forbidden to them and which they now openly, flagrantly enjoy on a daily basis. Cheeses and so on

• And he did this to his other mother’s essay on demonology

  

• He has knocked me down and rendered me unconscious on innumerable occasions, and will only revive me by placing a careful hand on my forehead after minutes of arbitrary giggling and waiting

• He has plundered our seas, ravaged our Coasts, burnt our towns, and is at this time transporting large Armies of foreign Mercenaries

• He has treated with rapacious destruction the cabinets in the kitchen and tried to flush the toilet by himself, even when the most attractive and cleanest of toys are presented to him as an alternative

• And he has outgrown some of his cutest outfits in a matter of days, even though the tags say they are supposed to fit him for another two months, and he is never going to get smaller again to fit back into them; not never, not once, not even for a single day will he get smaller again.

• And I have told him on several occasions that he is getting too big and must slow down. He does not slow down

In every stage of these Oppressions we have petitioned for redress in the most humble terms: Our repeated Petitions have been answered only by repeated injury. A Prince whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people.

You can see his conduct for yourself.

I ask you: Is this just? Is this fair? Has he the right to exclude me from my home without bringing charges against me, without permitting me to face my accusers, without benefit of trial featuring a jury of my peers? But let judgment run down as waters, and righteousness as a mighty stream; I am sure he will wake from his nap ready to pursue kindness and right action, and he will never try to steal a bite of the toast I am making now.