Baby Face

According to Art Linkletter,ⁱ “Kids say the darndest things.” I guess they don't know any better. They say whatever comes into their heads, and they're unguarded – they don't filter it.

Not so, adults. They're more “sensitive.” More guarded. And far more conventional. They've been taught what to say in various circumstances and, for the most part, will say the “right” thing even if it isn't true and they don't believe it. For example, it's become fashionable, whenever an inquiry is made about almost anything personal,ⁱⁱ (such as “How have you been” or “How is _____,” although you know the questioner doesn't really care what your response is, and you'd prefer not to talk about the subject anyway) to reply, “Thank you for asking.” Of course you don't mean it, but it's the right thing to say. Then you make up an answer – usually as short as possible – so you can move on to other subjects which also interests neither of you. (Conversation like this is typical of what you're likely to hear at a cocktail party – small talk that is banal until after you've had a few drinks. Then, of course, it is brilliant.)

The observance of such conventions is commonplace, and completely without meaning. After all, what can we possibly have in mind when we write “Dear” ______ to someone we don't know, or “Sincerely” or “Love” after almost anything we've put in a letter to a stranger? And should we assume that someone who doesn't write “Sincerely” is insincere?

There are times when the comment is clearly insincere. “Call me sometime. We'll have lunch.” The significance of a remark like that might be ambiguous if the party speaking were to disclose his telephone number, but too often he's careful not to do so. However that's all right since you can't remember his name. So when he asks you to extend regards to the family you won't be able to do so, though you'll certainly agree to do so. Not that it matters to him. He's already forgotten both the request and you, if he ever really took note of you in the first place. And if the request was more than a formula for disengaging from the meeting.

There are times when we don't know the origin of what we are saying, for, if we did, we'd say something else. “Goodbye,” with which, as a matter of course, we end all conversations, is a contraction of "God be wyⁱⁱⁱ you." I suspect that many an angry telephone call, which ends with one party slamming down the receiver, would be terminated with a different valediction if that origin were considered.

Nonetheless, we seem to be stuck with a group of things we always say. I realized this when someone commented on the appearance of a new grandchild of mine. “Oh, what a beautiful baby.” It was a comment I had heard innumerable times.^iv I'm not so discerning. All babies^v look the same to me. They all look like Winston Churchill. (All of them look kind of nondescript except for newborns, who are all ugly.) But I'd never say that to a proud new father showing off the video he took in the delivery room. Nor to the mother who is just recovering from the ordeal. But mine is not a unique perspective. Indeed, Churchill himself said “All babies look like me. But then, I look like all babies.” What you hear from all the friends and relatives, though, is that this one is unique - and uniquely beautiful. Have you ever heard anyone tell the truth to a parent? “That's as ugly a baby as I've ever seen.” Truth is not the issue. Stroking is. So we all say what the parents want to hear. We may see them at another time and want that meeting to be as pleasant as possible.

I don't mean to suggest that all children are nondescript or ugly, though this may be the case just after they're hatched. Johnny Mercer hypothesized that a pretty girl “must have been a beautiful baby”^vi but I doubt that such was the case. Later in the song he wrote “when you were only startin' to go to kindergarten,^vii I bet you drove the little boys wild.” That makes more sense. At birth they're all the same but once a baby starts to develop a personality, individuality and beauty are more likely to be apparent. Not that someone would insult a child who has grown up ugly. He won't. Silence or a compliment would be the response no matter what if a comment on such a child's appearance were solicited – either outright or by implication – because an insult is not an appropriate description from an adult. A child might not hesitate to tell the truth, but adults don't do that.

An example of this phenomenon occurs immediately after the stroker has seen the baby or a picture of him. “What's his name?” To which you dutifully reply, and then you hear: “What an ugly name. That's a joke, isn't it? How can the parents saddle a poor baby with such a horrible name?”

No. That's not what you said. Only a child would say what he really believes. An adult would pronounce the name – however silly it might be – “beautiful.” I've always wondered about that, even more than I've wondered why people ask the name when they don't care, and probably won't remember it anyway. And of course they ask about the weight, with some kind of inane comment following.

So we're left with the problem. Should we tell the truth or not? The simple solution is to keep a kid handy at all times. He'll do the dirty work for you.

Next episode: “Hate Speech” – Don't you just love it?

i      Try Google^TM or another search engine if you've never heard of him.

ii     Though it's usually about something the questioner knows is distressing.

iii    No. That's not a misprint. It must be the way they talked at the time in Shakespeare's neighborhood. That's what he wrote in “As You Like It.” There were many variations of the sentiment which derives from “God be with you,” and Shakespeare's was only one of them.

iv    Actually, I'm sure it's numerable. I just don't know the number.

v     Well, almost all babies.

vi   “You Must Have Been A Beautiful Baby” was published by Harry Warren (music) and Johnny Mercer (lyrics) in 1938 and first appeared in “Hard To Get.”

vii    The lyric suggests that kindergarten was likely to be the baby's introduction to social interactions. That was then. Now with play groups, nursery school, day care, and pre-K (all carefully chosen with the goal of preparing the baby for an Ivy League school), kindergarten is the last of a series of social experiences prior to elementary-level education, and will probably be capped (and gowned) by a commencement ceremony. Then they can start getting some kind of education.