Babies are a usually unwelcome soundtrack to our transit that we may personally resent but rarely voice it out of sympathy and/or empathy. Still, after a long day pushing paper, when we don’t have the excuse that the little babbling jerk carries on our genetic legacy, it might be tempting to resort to lines of thought slightly more judgmental than the average.
Mummy, get it under control or I’m going to impale you on my office pens.
Of course, baby/toddler is never at fault and mummy is most probably not at fault either. It’s just the way shit goes sometimes. Nature never really intended for us to share a carriage with a screaming infant at length – if you were in a cave with another family’s wailing kids you were probably trying to steal their fried gerbil stash. Just take the broccoli and the cheeky buggers would even have ushered you out of the beaded curtain at the entrance.
Please, come back anytime. Might I also recommend the delectable sprouts.
And so I put forward a possible solution. We use our knowledge on genetic modification, combined with our love of a deep bass (the voice range, not the shit blasting out of your Subaru Impreza’s boot) to alter the voices of the tykes in their pre-pubescent years. We give them Barry White’s throat strings (maybe Scarlett Johannsen or something for the ladybabies).
Hey sweet mama – how about a bit of that carrot puree?
Yeah, there might be some physiological side-effects like them having abnormally sized necks for the first few years, but we’ll work around it. Face it, it would all be worth it to have the little 3 year old in front of you on the train spit out “mum, I’m hungry” as Morgan Freeman. You’d starve your children just to her them complain to you.