Oh, we adults think we're the ones running the show. We pick the outfits, the crib, even the baby's very name. Rainbowchild Moonflower? Sure, why not?
But with one simple, monotone vocalization, the baby asserts its dominance with such crushing speed that we're compelled to come running no matter the day, no matter the hour. The adult is tired? Irrelevant. The adult had a bad day? Irrelevant. The adult has no idea what the baby wants? Irrelevant. The baby wants it and the baby wants it now.
The baby, like the Borg queen and her drones, bends us to her will. The baby doesn't need to work out how to communicate with us. No, it's up to us to figure out what she's saying. If she's unintelligible, well... that's not her problem. She starts making noise and doesn't let up until she's satisfied. How to satisfy her is our problem.
It's like communicating with a politician... except that when all else fails, you can always smack the politician upside the head. Do that to a baby and all you get is... more crying.
It's lose-lose. Except for the baby, of course. Because the baby always wins.
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