Not Yet Bigger Than a Breadbox

By Veronica

At the baby’s check-up this week, the doctor and I were both surprised to find she was growing quite well. She is in the 81st percentile for weight, a definite first for this family of skinny babies. I could not be more pleased. I congratulated my breasts on all their hard work.

In HG Wells’ 1904 novel The Food of the Gods, clever scientists discover a dietary supplement that produces enormous growth. Instead of growing in spurts, the eater grows continuously at the same rapid rate, resulting in enormous size. Bees grow as big as dogs, and rats as big as lions! Grass grows taller than buildings! The world seems on the verge of a new era of gigantism.

One of these clever scientists sneaks the food into his infant son’s formula, with predictable results. He does not consult his wife on this matter; Wells implies that mothers are too sentimentally attached to their children to be trusted in Matters of Progress. So the boy becomes a giant, the mother cries at his bizarreness, and the father is ultimately vindicated when his son becomes one of the new breed of men, the next stage in human evolution.

I am not a believer in Progress, so maybe Wells was right. I do not particularly want my children to be the next stage in human evolution. I would like them to be kind and responsible, and I am okay with ordinary. I am unquestionably sentimental enough to value goodness over brilliance. HG Wells, for all his brilliance, was kinda a jerk.

I am thrilled with the growth of my normal, healthy baby, but my dreams for her are more about the character I want her to have than the people I want her to impress. A Nietschian Superman probably wouldn’t visit his mother in the nursing home.

Besides, a colossus baby would be awfully hard to house, especially in the city. And I don’t even want to think about the diapers.

When Veronica is not indulging her penchant for early science fiction novels, she can be found blogging at Toddled Dredge.