(Pro)creating an epidemic of baby fever
The experts have spoken. They’ve taken the pulse, gauged the temperature with their thermometer (so cold it tickles! And now. Sadness and shame set in ...) and come up with a diagnosis.
And that diagnosis? Baby fever.
Wait. Nope. Royal baby fever.
The bestest baby fever there is.
For those not familiar with the affliction, perhaps it should be noted that it’s different from normal baby fever in that it involves parents who won the genetic jackpot (well, except for all of those defects from centuries of inbreeding, like red hair, big ears, receding hairlines, etc.) and have captured the imaginations of us less well-heeled folk with their magical ability to introduce fertilizer to egg. (Note: Royal baby fever also differs from the more common or commoner “major fever for the flavour of a Pringle’s” in that one is less about their highnesses and more a symptom of highness.)
In this case, it’s about Prince William and Catherine, his betrothed (an oft-used larping term for snuggle partners).
Or, more specifically, it’s about how they were able, through a well photo-documented process, to somehow procreate, to put in her belly, with wizard spells, probably, a kid or a couple of kids (the latter would make sense, considering the aforementioned inbreeding and the fact that twins are, according to Yahoo question respondents, “creepy,” “unnatural” and “just plain wrong”). And we now care. We now care so much that it’s become an epidemic (like SARS, except without the masks and chemical welcome mats at the airport) that’s sweeping through the colonies and former colonies and future colonies (i.e. Uranus. Giggle). These two crumpeteaters made a baby or two.
Granted, the cynics among us might be tempted to hold the late, beloved Bill Hicks’s major awesome Rant in E-Minor view of “not special” and “little miracles,” but seriously, when regal people manage (with the help of servants, presumably) to navigate the IKEA-confusing process of putting this in that, jiggling it, tightening that, and then this is the final result (after much swearing and use of Allen wrenches, if you’re doing it the proper way), well, it’s something that we can all celebrate and obsess over.
And should obsess over, feed this fever, so to speak.
This is exactly the thing that should matter to a world that has its priorities in order, that has figured everything out, that now has nothing but time for things such as that funny foreign fella (Pi, I think) and that goofy dance he does (the Charleston or the Dougie or something) and that catchy song he sings (Kill All Yankees, apparently).
We should speculate on everything, including: the hows and whens and wheres this blessed act took place (back of Granny Liz’s convertible); when the birth or births will actually happen (could be months, years — who can really say?); whatever name this kid or these kids will be given (out on a limb: something very old and very white); who will sing at the christening (“What do you mean the parents kindly request I not play Candle In the Wind?”); and when and how the first sullying of the royal name will take place (full monty billiard games, SS garb, visits to Cowboys, etc.).
We should adopt him or her or possible combinations of the two as our own because, really, it takes a village to raise a child, but it takes an entire kingdom and commonwealth to raise (and fund) a truly monarchical child.
From conception to birth to childhood to a hopefully long and pampered life, we should be there for all of the milestones and all of the minutia, and we should care about every crawl, stumble and step of the way. It’s royal baby fever, it’s not just allowed it’s encouraged. Well, until it actually claims a life.
Then maybe it’s time to seek a cure.