“Where Babies Come From” According to Mini Arachnid

Before my brother was born, I thought that babies were things that people just had or didn’t have. Like hair.

I guess I just never stopped to consider, hey, where did this baby come from? just like I never stopped to consider, hey, where did this couch come from?

When my mom was pregnant with my brother, my parents told me that this future person was inside my mother. *Explosions of insanity* Like, did she eat him? Is that ethically correct? I don’t think I fully comprehended this until she gave birth, though.

I remember the day before my brother was due, my mother was basically a hot air balloon. If the baby is that big, then how does it even get out?

So I asked my mother, “How does the baby get out?”

And my mother and my cousin shared this look and neither of them answered. So I started guessing. “Does it come out of your mouth? That’d be so uncomfortable. Would you be able to breathe? Does it come out of your butt? Is poop a baby?”

At this point, to stop me from going any further, my mom said, “They’re going to cut it out of my stomach.”

This, obviously, horrified me. I imagined some evil cartoonish surgeon taking a huge, rusty knife to my mother and then stitching her back up like a zombie.

I mean, this was kinda true because she had a c-section.

So then four-year-old me kept thinking. Because that’s healthy. What triggers a pregnancy? I decided that it happens spontaneously. Like you’re just eating breakfast one day and bam you’re pregnant and you instantly become a human blimp. But then what’s stopping my mom from having another kid? I was not happy with the first one; a second would be a nightmare.

Little Arachnid: “Mom, what’s stopping you from getting pregnant again?”

Arachnid’s Mom: They gave me an injection so I won’t have any more kids.

Well, okay. Good enough for now.

Until people started asking if Scorpion got his nose from his dad and his eyes from his mom. I understood how Scorpion would get his eyes from his mom because I mean, he was inside her. But how would he get anything from his dad? My dad wasn’t pregnant. Maybe it’s from kissing. Like, in all that icky salival exchange noses are transferred to babies. But no. Then they wouldn’t have actors kissing each other on Good Luck, Charlie because then they’d all have kids! It’s all probably transferred through the air. Because after they get married, the dad and the mom live together, so then air particles are transferred and that’s where Scorpion gets his nose.

 

This explanation worked for me for years until we got back from a baby shower and I started thinking again.

If babies have to be surgically removed from their mothers, what did cavemen and dolphins do? Because they don’t have hospitals.

Babies must come out of their mother’s belly buttons! What else would belly buttons be used for? Right? Right?

She’s Having a Baby?!

So last Monday, my cousin’s wife had a baby. I didn’t know she was pregnant.

Sure, big families can be fun with the endless stream of people who are obligated to like you. But they can also be a burden.

When you near forty cousins, there’s a problem. Many problems, in fact. Such as no one telling you that one of them is having a baby. And not being able to remember said baby’s name.

One day your mom will tell you that one of your closest cousin’s has a new wife (He got married?!) or is having another baby (He’s married?!).

And you can never remember a week later that they got married or had a baby.

 

Or sometimes you’ll be at a party and some random stranger will come up to you and the following conversation will ensue:

Stranger: Hey, Arachnid! I’m your aunt! I saw you when you were three. You used to run around without clothes on. Remember?

Arachnid: Oh, hey…yeah. I totally remember that. You’re my favorite relative! How could I possibly forget you? Uhh… Remind me how we’re related?

*Stranger that claims she is your relative holds out her arms for a hug.*

Arachnid (Thinking): Who in the blobfish is this random dude? I’m supposed to HUG her?!

*Arachnid awkwardly shakes the stranger’s hand*

 

I often have difficulties remembering all the members of the Weaver family (There are so many!). I ask my parents beforehand whenever we go to visit family. I still can never remember their names, though.

Most of my cousins are a lot older than me, and they’re all getting married (I’m going to go off on a little tangent about arranged marriages now. One of my cousins is getting married this summer. It was arranged. They talked on Facebook for NINE DAYS when he proposed to her. And she said yes. THEY HAVE NEVER MET IN PERSON. *Ultimate face-palm. Face-palm so hard I accidentally decapitate myself*) And my cousins are all getting married to people with even BIGGER families and then I have to learn all of their names.

A couple months ago, a large portion of my family went to my dad’s brother’s son’s son’s first birthday party. One of my cousin’s friends came to the party and he asked my cousin how he was related to the Birthday Boy.

Friend: How are you guys related?

Cousin: Uhh… He’s my mother’s sister’s husband’s brother’s son’s son.

Friend: …

 

I need to make a flowchart or something to keep track of everyone.


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I Never Learned About Stranger Danger

Most children are taught at a young age about ‘Stranger Danger’. It’s the time when their expectations for a perfect world full of good people are dashed, and to add salt to an already-burning wound, their childhood is crushed like a fresh leaf underfoot.

Their wonderous, big-eyed, childish glow is muted by the fact that not everyone loves you. That not everyone holds your wants and needs and safety close to their hearts. That not everyone will hold your hand when you cross the street.

It’s when you start to look around at the world and you see kidnappers and murderers and thieves and rapists lurking behind every innocuous and smiling face. When you stop talking to strangers and making friends outside of your comfort zone. When you cling to your parents, your courage crushed and your fears multiplied ten-fold.

But, of course, there are always exceptions. Children who choose to believe in humanity. Children who believe that nothing bad can happen, no skinned knees or scraped wrists, as long as they don’t cheat on their next vocabulary test. Oh, they’re aware, of course, of strange men in white vans giving free candy to children. But stuff like that is the work of fiction, or it happens to faraway people. Never at home. Never to good children like you.

These children know that danger exists. But they won’t recognize it when it tries to hide.


My parents attempted, like most other parents, to teach me about stranger danger and the faults of the world. But I did not believe them. Why would anyone hurt me? I’m so adorable. I’m invincible!

Another lesson of theirs, however, did seem to seep into my skull. They told me that if anything bad were ever to happen (they never specified, but I assumed they meant skinned knees and scraped wrists) to tell the nearest adult.

Adults are to be trusted. They are always good and they always know better.

I, as a child, believed this full-heartedly. I had experienced first-hand the cruelty of children, but without much contact with adults aside from my teachers and parents, I had no reason to disbelieve my parents’ words.

Children are so awful, how could adults be the same? I was sure they out-grew their monstrousness at some point.

Thankfully, nothing bad ever happened where I had to trust my life to some random adult. I mean, there was that time I got lost at the Target and I was mentally preparing myself to do some stranger-talking, but my parents were just one aisle over. So…

Anyway.

When I was in second-grade, I was visiting family in Bangladesh. We were at my cousin’s house, which, as I remember it, is a single apartment building. Behind the building is a forest and in front of it is a field and the area isn’t densely populated aside from the people living in the single apartment building.

The field was absolutely packed with forget-me-nots and they would always stick to your clothing when you walked anywhere and there were tons of puddles that made an excellent jumping ground.

One day, my cousin, my brother (Scorpion), and I were playing in the field, just doing what children do. My parents and my aunt were in the house, just doing whatever it is that adults do (probably gossiping over tea). My cousin was about ten, I was seven, and Scorpion was three.

We were having an amazing time, running around and splashing in puddles, the air humid and hanging heavily, plastering sweat to our faces, when a random man on a motorcycle appeared on the road in front of the apartment.

He was wearing a black jacket and dark pants and we’d never seen him before. He asked us if we wanted a ride on his motorcycle. But he could only take two of us. His motorcycle wasn’t large enough for all three.

My cousin, Scorpion, and I quickly discussed who should go. All three of us wanted to go, obviously, but we had to decide who would be left behind.

One of my uncles has a motorcycle, too, but he rarely let us go on rides with him because he thinks it’s dangerous. But motorcycles aren’t dangerous. They’re fun. And how could something so harmless hurt?

Eventually, we decided that Scorpion and I would go since my cousin lived in Bangladesh and would occasionally get a ride from my uncle. But Scorpian and I lived in the States and a motorcycle was novel for us. Straight out of a comic book.

We asked my cousin to tell our parents where we had gone.

We were so very considerate and cared so very much for our safety…

Scorpion and I climbed onto the motorcycle, seated in front of the mystery driver, all laughter and giggles. How lucky we were for a benefactor to magically arrive and whisk us away for fun without warning.

The ride was exhilarating. I could feel the wind combing its fingers through my hair and I could smell the damp earth as the motorcycle ate it away.

But the ride continued for longer than I had expected. We were bordering on fifteen minutes. The wind turned cold and the earth turned sour. I realized how fast we were going. How much distance we had covered.

I realized I didn’t know this man’s name.

My brother was still laughing.

I started to fidget. I asked, “Can we go home now? I’m getting tired.”

The man didn’t look at me. His dark eyes were glued to the road. “Don’t you want to ride a bit longer? It’s so much fun.”

Scorpion replied, “Yeah! Let’s keep going.”

I am starting to panic, but I keep a blank face for my brother. I hold him closer.

My cousin had told me stories of infants stolen in the night. Their organs cut out and sold. I’d seen the blind men without eyes on their faces, nothing but empty sockets. I thought that she had been trying to scare me. She’d told me of little girls and boys taken and never returned. Their families grieve, but they move on with time. The little girls and boys tortured for more, more, more.

The anxiety in my stomach grows, building into a monster, clawing at me and scraping away at all self-control. I can feel the pieces flake off onto the road and they are run over by the motorcycle’s wheels, torn up by the wind, and left in the ground far behind me in a moment’s time.

I breathe in. I breathe out.

Faster, faster.

But then, I see it.

The field with the forget-me-nots and the puddles where children play.

The man slows and stops. He helps my brother down and then me.

My family is waiting, my cousin in the front.


This story is the inspiration for my short story, A Dreamer in The Darkness. Getting on that motorcycle was a really stupid idea. I was in a strange country so far away from home. I couldn’t read in the language and I could barely speak it. So many things could’ve gone wrong, but luckily, they didn’t.

Sam, the main character of A Dreamer in The Darkness, is based on me as a child. His story is what could’ve happened.

Third Grade Mishaps (Blood Included)

Third grade, like all other grades, is a horrible year. The pressure begins to ramp up, you’re homework gets due dates, drama, etc.

I did lots of stupid things in third grade, such as color my teeth blue with a ballpoint pen; color my entire hand blue with a ballpoint pen; lock myself in my room for hours at a time without food, water, or bathroom breaks to watch ICarly; contract the stomach flu; throw up in the hallway and walk into a random classroom with vomit all over my hands and face; throw up in the hallway again; write a short story about vampires; etc. The list could go on for ages.

But today we’re going to talk about a particular story that took place in third grade.

Like every other mostly sane person, I am in an ongoing war with mosquitos. Mosquitos are horrible (they’re important to the ecosystem but horrible to people). They are horrible and don’t you dare disagree. They suck your blood like greedy vampires and leave itching bumps that swell to the size of plastic Easter eggs.

Mosquitos, on the other hand, love me. They leave everyone else alone and make a feast of me.

Everyone always tells you never to scratch mosquito bites, but I’ve never been one to listen to everyone. But in this case, at least, I should have.

I got a mosquito bite on my left forearm and it swelled to a respectable size. And I itched it. I itched it until it bled.

(Mosquitos are one of the reasons that I despise spring.)

But, thanks to magic and a Band-Aid, the bloody wound eventually scabbed over.

(This post’s about to get somewhat gross. Squeamish readers, click off now.)

Another activity that I participated in as a naive child was the picking of scabs. *Shudders* Don’t worry, dear readers, I don’t do this anymore.

The scab was about a half-inch long (“How do I know this?” you ask. I still have a scar) and it covered a half-inch long wound. (I’m going to call it a wound. It makes the story more dramatic.)

During class, I did the inevitable and picked off the scab.

But, of course, it started bleeding profusely. (What else did I expect?)

So here I am, blood gushing from an open wound, my right hand clapped over it to try and stanch the flow, and my teacher, under the premise that nothing was wrong, merrily teaching away.

Thankfully, a few minutes later, she gave us time to work. I went up to ask the teacher for a Band-Aid, but there was another girl in front of me. I waited patiently behind her, still bleeding.

She needed a Band-Aid as well. For her papercut.

The nightmare then began.

Me: Uh, I need a Band-Aid, too.

Teacher: I’m sorry. We’re out of Band-Aids. Is it an emergency?

Girl: That’s fine. I don’t really need one.

Me: … Yeah. I guess it can wait.

It could not wait. It definitely could not wait.

Soon afterward, the teacher began to teach again. (It is her job, after all.)

And I’m still sitting there. Bleeding profusely.

I lifted my right hand to check if it had stopped bleeding. Nope. And my right hand was coated with blood.

At that point, a classmate, let’s call him Earl Omega, looked right at me. I held eye contact and glared at him with the full force of the laser-firing armada located behind my eyeballs.

I can’t remember what happened afterward because third grade was so long ago.

And now we’ll never know if Little Arachnid ever got that Band-Aid or not.

My Pet Moths

Dear nonexistent readers,

Due to the impending doom and sneaky approach of midterms, it seems as though the days have inexplicably shrunk.

Apologies to all who have been here long enough to have read this post before, but I will be reposting an old post.

 

When I said that my only pets were plants, I lied. Unintentionally, of course. I also had some pet moths.

Way back a long time ago, in kindergarten to be specific, everyone in my class received a board game. I mean, technically it was a board game, but it was printed on regular printing paper, which, as the name implies, is used for printing upon. Usually. Printing paper has a plethora of other uses too, which I’m sure you can use your own imagination to figure out.

So anyway, returning to the point at hand, my lovely kindergarten teacher gave us all a board game and Mexican Jumping Beans. I was entranced by the beans. My five-year-old mind could not process the magic of legumes that moved on their own. Usually, legumes require people to move them.

We were not told that Mexican Jumping Beans are not, in fact, beans, but rather they are moth larvae.

So I brought four or five moth larvae home, convinced that they were magical beans.

For a few minutes, days, or weeks, I can’t remember, we all played this lovely board game with my magical beans. It was brilliant.

Then, one morning, I wake up, as most people do on most mornings, and I decided to play my lovely board game. I was very surprised to find that the little plastic box where I kept my magic beans were full of moths.

 

Sleep Stories Part 1: Kindergarten

Sleep is that wonderful time between being awake where everything is bliss and there is no homework or taxes to worry about.

But it’s so hard to sleep for enough time, what with the hectic schedule that comes with being awake and often spills into the nighttime hours. I usually have to get up at 6 a.m., which is before the sun rises and therefore inhumane.

People keep telling me to take a nap when I start nodding off in the middle of conversations or trip over my imagination and fall, but I refuse to sleep during the daytime when there is a sun in the sky, telling me that there is work to be done (however inefficiently).

I remember back in kindergarten when there was rest-time. Ahh, rest-time. Such horrible memories.

There is a large difference between rest-time and naptime. When you have naptime, you are supposed to sleep. When you have rest-time, you are supposed to lie on the hard floor quietly, doing nothing, saying nothing, and staring at nothing. But you are not supposed to fall asleep. Never fall asleep! It was absurd.

But this nothingness was only supposed to last a few months into the school year. Once we learned to read, we were expected to read during rest-time. I, on the other hand, couldn’t really read well until first grade, so I continued to spend the time doing nothing with a book in front of my face.

But before the class, as a whole, could read, we were to bask in our nothingness, but nothingness is quite boring, especially for a fidgety five-year-old. So what is a fidgety five-year-old to do other than fall asleep?

So I fell asleep. And my lovely kindergarten teacher didn’t wake me up (Shoutout to you, Ms. K, the best kindergarten teacher in existence). But the class could not wait for me, a tired and fidgety five-year-old, to get the sleep she needed. They had things to learn! So while I was asleep, the rest of the class read Chicka Chicka Boom Boom and made construction paper palm trees. They were glorious.

The F-Word

I’m planning to write another post eventually on swear words in general, so this is sort of like an appetizer.

This is a story of the first (and only) time I’ve said the f-word.

But before we get to that, I’d like to talk about this tongue twister. (“Mother Pheasant Plucker”. You can imagine how well that goes. I am scared to even attempt it.) I have an acquaintance who introduced me to this song and she has managed to perfect this twisty tongue twister, but whenever she sings it, I get very nervous.

So on to the story.

When I was in second grade, I, like any other sane second grader, loved Kidz Bop and one day dreamed being among their ranks of singers. I remember that I bought Kidz Bop 19 at one point, but that was the only album of theirs that I bought or listened to. But even without having heard a majority of their unoriginal songs, I knew that I adored them.

I also thought that all the songs that they chose to sing were curse word-free.

I was watching TV one day, as I did on the majority of days, and I happened to come across one of Kidz Bop’s advertisements, in which they sang a clip of a song, Starship.

I immediately adored this song.

As a second grader, I knew that some songs had swear words and were not appropriate for second graders like myself. But my new favorite song (I know, I had bad taste back then) had been sung by Kidz Bop, right? So it didn’t have any bad words, right?

Well, when I was in second grade, I knew of the existence of bad words. I didn’t know what they were.

My Vocabulary of Curse Words

Stupid

Hate

Heck

Whatever

 

So I looked up the lyric video on Youtube and set to work on learning the song. I was quite confused when I saw that they hadn’t finished a word and instead had “f” and a bunch of asterisks. I thought that the person who made the lyric video hadn’t been able to hear the word properly and had given up. But I was not like this person. I was persistent. So I listened hard and figured out what the word was.

I had learned the entire song, even the rap parts, and I was very proud of myself. (This song is by Nicki Minaj, may I add.)

I was ready to go to the next level.

I performed the song for my father.

F-word and all.

I wasn’t allowed to watch Youtube for a month.

 

P.S. In the Kidz Bop version, the word is replaced with “We’re Kidz Bop and we’re taking over.”

What are they taking over?

Analyzing Nursery Rhymes

It’s raining it’s pouring

The old man is snoring

He bumped his head

On the foot of the bed

And he didn’t get up in the morning

I’m sure you’ve heard of this nursery rhyme at least once in your life. This is the way that I learned it (which means that this is the right way).

I used to sing this nonstop whenever it rained. It probably annoyed my parents indefinitely. But whenever it rained and I was reminded of this song, I used to wonder why the old man couldn’t get up in the morning.

And how did he even bump his head on the foot of the bed? Was he sleeping upside down? Who does that? Does he thrash in his sleep? If so, why does he thrash about? Was he having nightmares? What was the cause of the nightmares?

 

Let us say that when this man was nothing but a mere child with about eight years under his belt, he loved the jungle. He wanted to grow up to be a scientist, scouring the Amazon for new plant and animal species. And this eight-year-old Old Man had to practice. How else would he get ahead of the game? So Old Man decided to swing with a rope off of the roof of his barn to practice his vine-swinging. However, Old Man lacked the upper-body strength required to swing from a rope and he immediately slid down it, earning rope burns on the pads of his fingers.

Now, while we wait for Old Man to fall, let us talk about his little sister, Annie. Annie was a pretty little thing with about six years behind her and she adored nothing more than her stuffed animals. She stored her large stuffed animal collection in a wading pool beneath the barn to protect them from the rain.

Some would say luckily (and others would say unluckily) for Old Man, Annie’s stuffed animal pool was positioned directly underneath the rope from which he fell and Old Man, therefore, fell into the wading pool instead of onto the unforgiving ground. While Old Man was thrashing about in this wading pool, blood pumped with adrenaline and surrounded by the glass eyes of stuffed animals, Old Man believed that this was his end and that he had reached his untimely death. This supposed death was not due to his large fall. Rather, it was due to his little sister’s stuffed animals.

After this curious incident, Old Man had developed a fear of stuffed animals. It didn’t affect him much, though, until he had grown middle-aged and had a daughter of his own. This daughter of his adored stuffed animals as much as, if not more than, little Annie. But Old Man was careful in avoiding his daughter’s toys and he managed to hide his fear.

But in his ripe old age, Old Man’s daughter thought that piling his bed with her old stuffed animals would bring the old man some comfort. How wrong she was.

Instead of the intended comfort, these stuffed animals plagued Old Man with terrifying nightmares. But no matter how much he might’ve wanted to, Old Man could not remove the stuffed animals from his bed as he was a kind and gentle soul and he could not bear to hurt his dear daughter’s feelings.

And this is the reason the old man’s head was near the foot of the bed.

 

Now as to why he didn’t get up in the morning.

I think he died due to the bumping of his head.

When you are Home Alone

What do you do when you are home alone?

You could partake in a whole manner of embarrassing activities when there is no one around simply because you can and there is no one around to judge you.

You could break some rules.

You could…

  • Leave all the lights on
  • Throw all the sheets on floor
  • Hang all the wall decor sideways
  • Eat mushed Jell-O on a hot dog bun
  • Throw a temper tantrum
  • Fling things that have been bothering you (like unsharpened pencils, dirty stuffed animals, a tissue box, etc.) down the stairs
  • Rip up paper and throw it in the air like confetti (like homework, taxes, receipts, etc.)
  • Switch the tulips and the begonias in the flower bed
  • Run
  • Stomp
  • Scream
  • Throw things (such as textbooks, dirty stuffed animals, plastic flamingos, etc.)
  • Hold a tea party with your china dolls as you’ve wanted to since you were a child, but haven’t as it is considered socially unacceptable for an adult over the age of 33.56 to be the host of a tea party if none of the guests are alive or human.
  • Smash things

Do you remember that first time you were alone? Were you one of those people who sat diligently in view of all the entrances to your house? Or were you the one who went slightly insane?

The first time I was home alone, I was asleep.

The second time, I first checked that all the doors were locked. Then, I gorged myself on chocolate, shrieked, and ran around. I believe I also read in the dark.

But, of course, there is a price to pay for every cricket of fun. (Cricket is a very real and definitely not made-up unit of measurement.)

Imagine you tore out the first fifty pages of all of your bothersome textbooks and flung the corpses down the stairs, all while screaming. The phone rings. You freeze, your mouth full of peanut butter, globs of it dripping onto the nice tablecloth. You see the caller ID says “Mother” and you wince. You know that you have to pick it up otherwise your mother may believe that an overweight gumdrop has broken into your house and kidnapped you. You hold the phone against your sticky face and say, your enunciation horrific due to the peanut butter coating your tongue and teeth, “Hello?”.

You: Hello?

Mother: My engagement has been canceled because an Inconceivable Event has just occurred. I’ll be home in fifteen minutes. (Sigh) I’ll just get married next month. And I thought your enunciation was better than that.

What you must do in fifteen minutes:

  • Pick up the confetti
  • Tape the confetti together so it looks like the first fifty pages of your textbooks
  • Replace the first fifty pages in your textbooks
  • Fix damage to textbooks from being flung down the stairs
  • Wash the nice tablecloth
  • Get new peanut butter
  • Wipe peanut butter off every surface in your house
  • Take a shower
  • Brush your teeth
  • Bribe your neighbors so they don’t tell your mother anything

Growing Up: Some Random Thoughts

Growing up is hard, as many people often notice. For example, after one is grown, there is less fun, more work, and less free time. When most people become old, they reminisce their younger days when their joints didn’t hurt and they had time for fun and they didn’t know swear words.

But when most people are young, they cannot wait to become old. When they are old, they can have jobs, they can change the world, they can be tall. They wait in anticipation for the days when they are the firefighters rescuing cats, the police fighting bad guys and saving the cities, or the famous singers whose names everyone recognizes.

I was the oddball of the group. I wanted to stay young forever and I dreaded growing up. (I did want to be taller, though. But not too tall. I was terrified of how the banisters on stairwells would then be shorter.)

But one cannot help but grow up as it is in one’s DNA. However, even if you were to stay in a kindergartener’s body forever, you would still grow in experience. (Would it be acceptable to relate one’s age to the number of swear words they know?)

A negative side effect of growing up, besides banisters being shorter, is the loss of magic. I love fantasy books now, but I didn’t when I was younger. Maybe this love of fantasy is like a vitamin supplement to make up for the lack of magic in the real world.

When one is young, one believes in a whole variety of magical beings and one puts absolute faith in their existence. Such magical beings could include (but are not limited to) leprechauns, the tooth fairy, Santa Claus, other fairies, cats, gnomes, elves, Santa’s elves, Keebler elves, etc.

The uncertain existence of these magical beings brought a sense of excitement to otherwise mundane kindergarten life. I say uncertain for two reasons A) you never see them, even though you know they exist and B) the doubters out there always said you are wrong, even though you know deep down that it was they that were wrong.

When I lost my first tooth and I put it underneath my pillow, ecstatic for the soon-to-arrive tooth fairy’s arrival, the tooth fairy forgot my house. Predictably, I was quite upset that morning. I couldn’t believe that the tooth fairy had forgotten me.

My parental units sat me, the five-year-old without front teeth, down and told me that the tooth fairy and Santa Claus and leprechauns and other fairies and Keebler elves were all lies. They were stories and they were fake. This shattered my little heart. I don’t remember my reaction, but it was probably along the lines of screaming and/or crying.

But, of course, I wasn’t crying because I had discovered that Earth was populated solely by human beings (among plants, animals, and microscopic life, of course) instead of being inhabited by mythical all-powerful beings as well. I was crying because my parents had lied to me.

Babies: Some Random Thoughts

When you think, you usually think in words. For example, if you are planning to eat pasta for breakfast tomorrow morning, you would think, Hey, you know what? I think I’m going to be crazy and eat pasta for breakfast tomorrow morning.

Personally, I prefer breakfast foods for dinner over dinner foods for breakfast, but that’s getting off topic. The main point is that those thoughts were in English, or whatever other languages you think in for our bilingual nonexistent friends.

Babies cannot speak, it’s one of the things that make them babies. But before they learn to speak, or even before they learn to recognize language, how do babies form thoughts? It wouldn’t be in words, as they don’t know any words. Would they think in colors? Images perhaps? Sounds? Sensations?

Well, they must think somehow. Babies may not be able to do math, but they aren’t daft. They certainly can communicate in their own way. But if they do think in images, let’s say, then how do these images come about? How do they identify the images without words? Language is such an important part of our lives, it’s hard to imagine what it was like before we knew any.

Everyone was a baby at some point or another, therefore everyone had the ability to think without words at some point in their lives. So do we still have this skill? Can we imagine an object in our minds and not give it a name?

And what would a baby even think about? It would certainly be different from what an adult thinks about as babies don’t have to worry about taxes quite yet.