Dear fellow grocery shopper:
When I wrangle my younger son into the Björn and run my errands, I am gratified by those who remark how cute he is. And there can be no debate about it: He is, intrinsically, captivating. He has blossomed, in his eight weeks of drawing breath, into the Adonisian ideal. That round, fuzzy head. Those warm, perceptive eyes. The maverick tongue thrust. Gaze upon his winsome visage, and you will be swept away to an alternate consciousness, where the sun cries peppermint drops and any endeavor seems possible.
You may also react to his soft, floppy legs hanging astride his perch. You may be overcome by the creamy texture and those darling little toes, lined up like so many tasty kernels of sweet corn. You may feel their inescapable attraction, even come to view them as some sort of talisman that can bestow a new clarity, make your world make more sense. In a sudden fit of yearning, you might be consumed by an irresistible impulse to caress his unspoiled flesh.
Resist it, you dirty oaf.