Slytherin baby is gorgeous! She’s a teeny, tiny, adorable, female version of Himself (I just carried you for nine months, gave birth to you, sustain you, but by all means look like your father – I’m just your host). Unfortunately, she doesn’t look like Himself when he’s browsing car websites, or shooting aliens on his computer; no, she looks like him when he’s doing taxes: very perplexed and extremely concerned.
“She has such an expressive face!” exclaimed a variety of visitors.
“Yes,” I sighed. “It’s just a pity that she only has three expressions: shock, horror and deep suspicion.”
While other babies gaze at their mothers with wide-eyed adoration, mine executes the perfect side-eye.
“I didn’t think I would need to put up with this for at least another 12 years,” I mused as Slytherin Baby swept me up and down with her eyes, her expression indicating she found me wanting. Slytherin Baby doesn’t gaze at me in wonder; she stares at me as if to say, “I’m not stupid; I can spot a pair of amateurs when I see them.” And honestly, she might have a point.
Upon carrying our latest addition into the house, I turned to Himself in a panic, “What do we do now? Do we feed it after midnight? Can we get it wet?”
It turns out that she definitely wants to be fed after midnight (and again before dawn, and just after dawn, and then midmorning, and then late morning, and…) and she does not want to get wet. At all. Ever. Baths are bad. Very bad! For someone who is essentially non-verbal, Slytherin Baby can be very good at making her displeasure known.
When I was expecting her, I had a little meltdown (for a change). “How can I look after a baby when I can’t even keep my pot plants alive?” I exclaimed.
“Don’t worry,” my friends assured me. “Pot plants don’t scream when they’re hungry – babies do.”
It turns out my friends were right. The only problem is that when babies yell, they don’t let you know exactly what’s wrong. “Can you be more specific?” I cried to my screaming baby. “Look, the lady at the baby classes said babies only cry for certain things. You’ve been fed, you’ve been changed, you’ve been burped, you’re warm enough, you’ve just had a nap, you’re being carried and gently told what a beautiful baby you are. You may not believe it, but I promise you kid – you’re living your best life.”
Of course, that isn’t to say that Slytherin Baby can’t be adorable – she can be; she’s just very selective about when she wants to be.
“… Slytherin Baby is apparently psychic. No matter what time her father arrives home in the evening, or her grandmother visits in the morning, Slytherin Baby calms down five minutes before they walk in.”
“Be careful what you put out into the universe,” one of my more New Age friends warned me when she heard me refer to my then-unborn child as a Slytherin. “If you keep talking about having a Slytherin, that’s what she’s going to be.”
“Uh-huh,” I replied and politely waited until I was out of the room before rolling my eyes.
“Don’t roll your eyes!” she called out after me. I should have been more impressed with her witchy powers.
“Oh, she’s an angel,” sighed Himself as he walked into the house to see his little girl lying peacefully dreaming in her cot, looking gorgeous and completely endearing. “You go rest, I’ll look after her now.”
“Great,” I muttered, red-eyed and white-faced, as I narrowed my eyes at my child, who had been screaming like a little hellion all afternoon and had fallen asleep five minutes before her father walked in.
“We’re so lucky we have an easy baby,” Himself murmured as he went about his evening activities, stopping only to admire his sleeping child.
“So lucky,” I growled as I finally managed to brush my teeth for the first time that day.
Now, this may not sound like a big deal, and it wouldn’t necessarily indicate a Slytherin personality, not if it happened once or twice. But Slytherin Baby is apparently psychic. No matter what time her father arrives home in the evening, or her grandmother visits in the morning, Slytherin Baby calms down five minutes before they walk in.
“This little thing makes a huge noise? Never!” coos The Grandmother as she gazes enraptured at the beautiful, wide-eyed baby, quietly sucking her fingers; looking nothing like the kid with the screwed-up, scarlet face I’d been trying to settle from four that morning.
“Slytherin,” I whispered to my child. I could swear she winked at me.
Amy Lalouette lives with Himself (her very patient husband) and Slytherin Baby. By day she’s an English teacher and by night she reads, writes, holds murder mystery parties and does belly dancing. Unfortunately, all this interferes with her lifelong ambition to have a spotless house and an empty laundry basket! She records her experiences (and confusion) of pregnancy and being a first-time parent on her personal blog “Mommy’s Off her Meds”.