They can smell your fear

Every time my mother sets eyes on me, she makes the same two observations. The first is, "Oh, you're looking awful thin!" She forgets, not having seen me for several years, that I have always been scrawny.  

The second observation comes as a result of me being paraded round relatives' houses and invariably ending up having a dribbling baby whose actual familial connection to me is unclear thrust onto my lap, and runs thus: "You're so great with children!"  

For years, I suspected that this was my mother's way of reminding me to have children. Then that moment passed and I wondered if children didn't  simply like me because, in comparison to the rest of my family, I'm less of a patronizing psychopath. However, that seems unkind and as my sister so often points out, I don't have kids so what would I know about it anyway? Besides, the babies of friends who are relatively sane also seem to enjoy scampering up my leg and grinning into my face at point blank range.  

This weekend, Timorous Beast and I visited friends in Saitama. Their baby barreled towards me the instant she clapped eyes on me and insisted on giving me Anpanman, Cheezu the dog and every other soft toy in greater Tokyo to play with at 5 second intervals throughout the afternoon. She pretty much ignored everyone else. 

The thing is, I don't like babies. I never have done. They are damp, pink and disgusting.  I have nothing to say to them and I don't know how to play with Anpanman. The only possible explanation, then, for their persistent attraction to me is that they know this and are trying to torture me.