Oh, but babies are sooooo cuuuute! Unfortunately, no one's come up with a growth stunting formula to KEEP them that way! (Have they?) They grow up (ha!) and turn into blood-sucking, parasitic monsters. They answer back, gang up on you, criticize you with curled lip at every turn; what you wear, how you look, what you think; the music you like, nothing you do is good enough and they're all bigger than you. Your life is not your own; every moment of it is dominated by them; awake and you're watching the clock because you're supposed to pick them up from school/guides/their mates/the airport - asleep and you?re nightmaring about which one you'd save first in a ship-wreck/airline crash/abduction/zombie invasion. And no matter how many sacrifices you've made, and that'll be a lot, everything, they always have that comeback 'I didn't ask to be born', to which my stock answer was usually, 'No, and I didn't ask for you, either - I wanted a nice one!' But they're quite right, they didn't ask to be born, the little shits! They've got us, there. We are hostages to our shitarse, turncoat, betraying, back-stabbing hormones. And it's only thanks to them that we don't strangle the snivelling little ingrate bastards - because, Christ, I swear we would otherwise. Then, when they start having their own babies, they?re determined to do it differently, and better - perfectly, in fact, because of course, you have been weighed on their scales and, make no mistake, found wanting. But, at least, at last, there is some small satisfaction, some small validation, one you never imagined and no reasonable mind, surely, would have ever wanted or imagined as any triumph, yet the only one you?re left with, a Pyrrhic victory indeed, that they, too, in their turn, will discover the truth about babies and that you were right all along. If only they?d listened to their mother. But don?t let me put you off, what do I know ? you go right ahead. I can tell you, the first half dozen are the worst. Have you got a link to that baby-bath video?