There’s a baby in the house.

It’s here right now, sleeping in one of my beds. Now what do I do?

Rest assured, it doesn’t belong to us. We gave that up at least one kid ago. No this one belonged to some friends of ours who spent the night.

Suddenly I had to worry about baby proofing. I carried a toxic diaper outside again for the first time in a dozen years.

It’s not always been like this. For the longest time, I used to excel at babies. I knew how to make them, change them, play music with them and aim their dirty laundry.

I was Mr. Mom, minus the cigars and the young Michael Keaton hair.

But that was 12 years ago. The “baby” of the house conducts hour-long inspections in front of the mirror before going to bed at trucker hours.

But the longer the baby stayed here tonight, the easier it became.

“Hey, do not let the baby ride the dog.”

“Remember it’s not like your Barbies. Please do not leave any limbs in the corner of your room.”

I could do this again sometime. As long as I get to give them back.