Before you were born, I had very strong (negative) feelings about the proliferation of superlatives in our discourse of compliments. There are stacks of t-shirts in stores labeled “World's Best Grandma” but clearly, by their very stackitude, the shirts are a lie. I think, to be reasonable, the implication is “(I think that you are are the) World's Best Grandma” but even that's a little much. There are 6 billion people on Earth. Many of them are grandmas. The World's Best? Really?
So I vowed not to use comparisons or superlatives when complimenting you. You might turn out to be a beautiful baby, but there was no need to invoke your relative beauty vis a vis other babies. That's weird. And, besides, it might make you conceited. There was a blog post on the New York Times parenting blog (I know, I know, why do I read things that make me insane? I don't know, kid, I don't know) about Santa Claus, and one parent mentioned how her kid gets a letter from Santa every year in which he is deemed the best child. On Earth. Like “Dear Kid, I looked at all the kids and you are the best. Love, Santa.” This struck me as deeply terrible, and it added to the vigor of my vow.
The vow is broken. Put it on the pile of vows. All I do is tell you how beautiful you are. And guess what? It is in relation to other babies. It is superior to other babies. I tell you constantly and vigorously that you are the cutest, most beautiful, and most wonderful baby. I mean it. I tell you that you have the prettiest eyes. I am completely serious. Other people, people with babies, compliment you and say “what a cutie,” and I respond “thank you.” There is a pause in which I am supposed to compliment their baby, but I do not, because I am not looking at their baby. I have forgotten their baby. I am staring at you and thinking “indeed.”
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