When I was a kid, I used to fantasize about finding a baby in a basket, on the door step.
Not an old beat up basket like this one–holding baby April–but a pretty little wicker one. Of course the baby would have a note attached to it reading, “Please look after my baby,” or something mysterious like that. In my child mind, the baby would, of course, be mine to have and name and play with forever–like a doll.
Back then, it was a magical, romantic thought–finding a baby on the porch that for some weird reason you could just keep. But nowadays, to imagine such a thing is just downright creepy. I mean, really–where were the “Child Protective Services” back then?
I know, I know…they didn’t exist.
At any rate, there must be some kind of compact, feel good, choo-choo train kind of relationship that many moms have with babies in baskets. Not just to sleep–but you know, where you plop them in this funny little place and tow them around the carpet for awhile.
And for the baby it’s instant Disneyland.
Oooh-oooh! The doorbell just rang…
I’ll go see–maybe it’s a stray baby or something.
I mean, you never know.