How to Raise a Baby

By Jonah Goldberg

Much as you might spread mulch over the yard to help your plants grow, we spread meat around the baby in the crib. We are nervous about being parents, but we think we’re doing a good job. When the baby smiles, we ask if he loves his daddies, and he gurgles and grabs our pinkies with his whole hand. When the baby cries, we hold him and ask what is wrong, and he babbles, “I bear a deep and aching hunger but have only one mouth with which to feed,” and we cradle him into our chests and breathe slowly with him until he falls asleep and the wallpaper stops bleeding.

We got a sitter once, so we could go out to dinner just the two of us. When we came back, she said the baby was very easy to take care of—he just waited, she said, he just sat still and waited—the only thing that she had to clean up after was the wolves—but that she would not like to come back again, she was sorry, but when she got too close to the baby she could feel her own skin—no, she couldn’t really explain better than that but have a good night Mr. and Mr. Bowers and good luck with the baby. 

Now only one of us leaves the house at a time, and the baby doesn’t fuss too much. One night one of us is poking parts of his face and singing things like “This is your nose, your nose, your nose, this is your nose,” and the baby whispers “It is lamentable that human hearts are protected in their cages.” And we stop singing, and we wait and when the other one of us comes home, we hold him tightly. Because maybe all the baby meant was that people are not always open enough with each other, yes honey I’m sure that’s what he meant and I love you too, don’t cry it’ll be okay.

“You have been good to this body,” the baby tells us, before he leaves. He repeats this several times a day for a week, and after we hear it the second time we start packing him a bag, with snacks and clothes and toys. He does read at this age, though most books we place before him revert to their original hieroglyphic form before burning to green ash. We bring the ash back to the library but we are still fined. The baby has become so difficult to clean up after. We open the fridge to get his formula twice a day and there is another carcass in the fridge. Sometimes we take the time to cut it and put the pieces in the blender for him. Sometimes we have to leave the room, and we come back minutes later to find the whole animal gone except for the bones. The baby likes sucking on the bones.

The baby is floating now, in our small backyard. The wolves are here again; we hired an exterminator, but they keep getting into the yard and the baby’s bedroom. Now they all begin to howl at the black and volcanic moon. The baby opens his mouth and begins to toll, like a deep church bell. The moon ruffles its black feathers and tolls back. They ring together as if to signal the arrival of a train. The earth fissures underneath the baby and he drops into it. Half of the wolves follow, running forward and diving into the pit in the backyard. Then the dirt closes. The moon becomes dormant again. “Goodnight moon,” we whisper, hugging each other and shivering in the brisk wind. We go inside but leave the porch light on. “Goodnight baby.”