Resolution: Find 300 Dead Babies

As written in the headline, my resolution for the coming year is to find… wait. Dammit! I did it again.

The babies aren’t dead. To be clear, they’re not exactly alive, either, and never were. But they’re certainly not dead. They’re just naked. I don’t know why I always refer to them as dead babies rather than naked babies.

My New Year’s resolution for 2020 is to find the 300 tiny naked babies that are scattered throughout my house, hidden in every place you might imagine a tiny naked baby to reside. Total clarity, right? You must be so confused. For heaven’s sake, let me start over.

Okay, you remember Lizzie’s friend Celine Dion? She’s at the heart of this confusion. Blame her, if you must. It’s certainly not my fault.

It began when Lizzie told me that, for her Christmas present to me and Paul, Celine needed to have “just a few minutes alone in every room in the house.”

What?

The day before Christmas Eve, Liz and Celine cornered me in my bedroom and commanded that I leave the room because it was time for them to “do my Christmas present.” Later, I went into my bathroom to put on earrings and found a teeny-tiny plastic naked baby nestled among my jewelry.

“Liz! Can you please come here? Explain,” I said, pointing to the naked baby. She raised her eyebrows and feigned innocence. “My Christmas present?” I asked.

“One of them,” she said.

“How many?”

She thought for a second, then said, “A couple.”

Perhaps you’re wondering about the significance of tiny naked babies. My answer to you is, simply, THERE ISN’T ONE. Why naked babies? No idea. When I went to dinner that night with the kids (just Liz and Mike; Celine couldn’t join us) and my brother and his family, Liz admitted that there might be a few naked babies in my purse. I reached in and pulled out a handful of multiracial naked babies – pink ones, brown ones, a couple of paler, lemony colored ones. A few had hair. Most didn’t. But they all had eyes, and their eyes were clearly opened, so they’re NOT dead, you guys, despite what Michael keeps saying (“Face it, Mom, the babies are dead.”)

The next day, Christmas Eve, Celine gave me my “official” gift: an envelope which held the following note: “For your Christmas present, I have hidden 300 babies throughout the house for you to find. Enjoy! Merry Christmas. Love, Celine Dion.”

By that point, though, I really didn’t need the note. I had already found dozens of babies, in places including:

    Tucked into the greenery on the mantel;
    Inside the tiny house of a decorative Christmas village I had just bought; the baby filled most of the house;
    Shoved into a snow bank on the back porch;
    In the sugar jar (two naked babies);
    In the coffee canister (two naked babies);
    Inside a sneaker I rarely wore;
    In the cabinet with the light bulbs and batteries
    In the dog’s water dish;
    On top of the picture frame of every single picture hung in the dining room;
    In Mary’s arms on top of the Baby Jesus in my manger scene (obviously);
    Riding rabbits in my Christmas village;
    And so on.

Mind you, these were the babies I came across without looking. I still have not gone out of my way to find any babies. I haven’t needed to. They just appear (causing me to shout “Oh! Baby!” involuntarily, every single time).

Liz thought that the sheer number of babies would “piss me off” after awhile, but so far, they just make me happy. How could you not smile when you think of the strange randomness of Celine Dion and Lizzie hiding THREE HUNDRED of these little guys?

I realize you’re probably having one of three reactions right now:

  1. You think it’s hilarious. “Teenage girls are so wacky and wonderful!”
  2. You think it’s stupid. “Teenage girls are so annoying!”
  3. You don’t get it. “Teenage girls are incomprehensible!”

But since you’re reading this, it may mean that, for the most part, you enjoy my blog. And if you tend to like what I write, you’re probably kind of wacky yourself, which means you’re having reaction number one. At least I hope so. If not, you can stop reading right now. Stop reading and go, like, fold laundry or something equally useful and boring (oh yeah, I also found a couple of babies down the laundry chute, which means – score! – that I’ve done at least one load of laundry since Christmas. Yay, me!).

The whole naked baby situation reminds me of something my best friend in high school and I used to do. Every now and then, we’d open every drawer and cabinet in the kitchen and leave them that way for my mother to find. Why? I can’t answer that any more than I can answer the dead baby – sorry, naked baby – question. Also, once when I was about 14 or so, I cut dozens of little butterflies out of different colors of construction paper and taped them to the ceiling of my mom’s room. They lived up there for a couple of years until we moved away, defying the laws of gravity and the natural life of a roll of Scotch tape.

Sometimes I do worry about the babies, though. I have a morbid imagination. Do you guys ever think like this? What if, God forbid – and I can hardly bear to even write this – but what if Liz or Celine Dion got in a terrible accident or something and, well, you know… like, died… and then I continued to find naked babies for years to come. Instead of making me smile each time, they would make me cry. But barring that horrible circumstance – and I’m sorry for even mentioning it – I love all my babies, both the live ones who belong to me, the live one who doesn’t belong to me but whom I claim as mine anyway (yes, that means you, Celine), and the plastic ones that I will be collecting throughout the year. Maybe by next Christmas, I’ll find all 300.

That, of course, will be a challenge: for awhile I was stashing found babies in the fruit bowl on the kitchen counter but they kept disappearing again and “somehow” being re-hidden. Also, I have found that babies have left the house on occasion. One night, when my bro and his family were visiting, I was hanging out with them at the B&B where they were staying. My niece, Jessica, poured me a glass of champagne, and when I went to take a sip, discovered a baby in my glass. I rinsed it off and pocketed it, and when I went back to my champagne, there was another baby in it.

So, you see, everyone can get into the game, but it might mean that I never gather all 300 in one place at the same time.

Anyway, for those of you who do the whole New Year’s Resolution thing, just know that I’m onboard with you this year. I don’t plan to hyper-focus on my diet, my financial world or my exercise regime, but I do intend to find 300 naked (not dead) babies. I hope your resolution is equally fun and fulfilling.

Now I’m off to the dining room. I can see the chandelier from here, and it occurred to me it is a perfect spot for a few babies.

Have fun until next time,

Jen

XO

PS: I feel totally let down. WTF, Celine Dion? No baby in the chandelier? However, I did find one nestled inside Michael’s headphones, so the trip to the dining room wasn’t entirely for nought.

PPS: If you’ve made it this far, here’s a little treat. Check out the upper left corner of the featured image for an extra baby. (Hint: look inside the angel’s halo…)

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