The InfantSEE program is great. The only problem is the patients: babies. Those squinty, screaming, poopy destroyers of all things calm and peaceful are a handful in the exam chair.

Mom chatters away about how Great-Aunt Lucy noticed last Christmas that little Seymour’s eyes are “turned in,” the baby screams and spits up, the older child climbs up on the baby, who’s on mom’s chest, eyes deeply embosomed.

That’s when Mom asks, “Do you think the baby’s eyes look OK?” Of course, all you have seen is the baby’s backside, or rather a droopy and poopy diaper—the third one since the baby entered your front door. Oh, you got a glimpse at the little dickens when the baby did that head spin that only those children given over to Satan do just before they throw up green stuff on your transilluminator. I hate vomit on my transilluminator, don’t you? The baby, in full screech, knew just what he or she or it was doing. The baby hates you. Admit it.

Sure, there are the occasional nice babies. They are few and far between. When they arrive—all bows and ribbons and baby-wiped to freshness—you think maybe this will be OK. That’s when Mom tells you of some obscure ocular family history that you remember hearing about your first year in clinical medicine class. The Internet search reminds you that your career is about to be ruined by this child because you will certainly miss the hallmark signs of the dreaded possible condition and they will name the lawsuit “Baby Jones vs. The Dumbest Eye Doctor,” setting precedents for decades to come. Oh baby, I really hate babies!

The Baby Bomb
The pediatricians are no darn help. They hate babies, too! Well, at least their eyes. The peds make grand pronouncements that you will spend a lifetime unteaching: “Mom, Suzi needs glasses,” you say.   “But,” Mom says, “Dr. Little told me when she was born that if anyone ever tried to make her wear glasses, I should just say NO.” Thanks, Dr. Little. Did you happen to notice that everyone in the freakin’ family is nearsighted? If you can predict the future that well at the first healthy baby checkup, could you send me some lottery numbers?

I should have known something big was coming. For weeks, every baby who came in was totally horrible, wicked, evil, stinky and vomitous. The dirty little creatures were grabby and loud, with a piercing frequency in their screams that made my kidney stones form. I prepared a policy meticulously designed to keep all babies a minimum of 100 yards from my front door, and yet not to offend those silly moms who, for some reason, loved their infants. That’s when my son dropped the bomb… I was going to be a grandfather.  

Karma Comes Home to Roost
What? Me? A grandfather? I hate children. I’m not even that fond of my own. In fact, at the moment my son told me the news, I despised him. A grandbaby? Not in my life. Then, on September 9, 2009, Miss Ella Katherine Vickers was born to Dr. and Dr. Aaron Montgomery Vickers in Louisville, Ky. Seven pounds, 5 ounces, 19 inches. Perfect right down to her notable head of hair—my color. I was amazed to see that this was—objectively and scientifically—the most beautiful baby ever born. Can’t wait to check her eyes! I love to check babies’ eyes, you know.

Epilogue: After the birth, I spent the next two days with an intestinal virus, screaming and vomiting and pooping. Seemed like karma.