Baby Fresh!

The other day when I was in line at Duane Reade, a woman came in pushing her baby in a stroller. Now, I’m not going to talk about how people with strollers think they own the store and that everyone else should have to get out of their way just because they have precious cargo in that stroller somewhere among the shopping bags and groceries and Mommy’s discarded pilly acrylic scarf and the diaper bag. No, I’m just here to ask this: What the fuck is up with that clear plastic sheet/drape/tarp thing that covers the entire stroller?
Baby Boy (the kid was wearing blue, which eliminated the guesswork!) was snoozing, oblivious to the Duane Reade experience. Oblivious to the dirty carpeting and the haphazardly stocked shelves. Oblivious to my quizzical fixation on the thick plastic barrier that ostensibly was there to protect him from the rain that I think we were expecting that day. Or the snow that never came either. Or perhaps just randomly spat sputum from the occasional passerby or from some litter-conscious pedestrian mistaking the stroller for a trashcan.
I could see no air holes, slits, slots, gaps, or other apertures in the surface of the plastic. At first I thought this meant that Mommy was sick of Baby, and choose to encase him in plastic as a quick ‘n’ easy way to rid herself of his infantile burden. After all, didn’t the dry-cleaning come in clingy plastic bags that admonished customers not to use the bags as toys because of a little thing known as suffocation?
But then the bright little bulb that I wear above my head (it’s attached to a specially designed apparatus expressly for this purpose) lit up (*ding!*), and I realized that I had completely misinterpreted the situation. The plastic wrap could mean only one thing: Mommy wanted to keep Baby fresh, like cheddar cheese. She didn’t want his edges to get crusty and hard. She wanted him to stay moist! She wasn’t an ignorant fucking moron. She was a nice lady and a good mother after all!
I paid for my soap, and skipped out happily. Once home, I hurried to the refrigerator, unwrapped my own adorable block of cheese, and cradled it lovingly in my arms. It was moist. And not at all crusty.
And all was right with the world.