Babies and Beer Gardens

WHEN MY PHONE RANG, I braced myself. My adult daughters were on a joint road trip to northern Missouri to visit my oldest daughter’s former college roommate who was working a booth at a community fair that weekend. Hilary and Mariah were going to the fair to keep her company. It just so happened that the fair also included a beer garden—the only garden my daughters enjoy cultivating.

“Mom!” Hilary screeched as soon as I answered. “We are in big trouble.” After the fair’s baby show judges didn’t show up, the girls were asked to take their places.

“Don’t even think about it!” I shouted. “I was a baby judge once, and it was brutal!”

“Too late,” Hilary said, with impending doom in her voice. “We just couldn’t say no.”

I have heard that excuse before.

Minutes later, my younger daughter called. “Mom,” Mariah whispered. “Where did all these babies come from? What are we going to do?”

I’ve learned that baby show winners are based on preferences. Some judges like bald babies, and some prefer babies with hair, so the winners are chosen accordingly. Babies don’t care who wins, but their mothers sure do. That’s where the brutal part comes in.

“Try this,” I said. “Weed out the crying babies, sleeping babies, and babies on the verge of either one. Focus on happy faces, and each time you choose, pretend like it is the hardest decision of your life.”

“I don’t have to pretend,” Mariah sighed, before hanging up.

Twenty minutes later, the phone rang again.

“Mom!” Mariah wailed. “Your plan didn’t work. There were no crying or sleeping babies in the first category. Hilary and I can’t do this. We are thinking about slipping out and not coming back. How bad would that be?”

That would be bad.

That’s when, once again, I started reciting my best motivational speech, the one that applies to most any situation. “You are not a quitter. You can’t just walk away, so throw your shoulders back and get to it. Stay focused, do your best, and move on. Until then, put your keys in your pocket, keep your head up, and know exactly where the exit is.

“You will be fine.”

When the baby show was over, my daughters called again. The girls were hiding in the car, and I could tell by their voices that they were not fine.

“Mom,” Hilary said on the verge of tears. “That was the most horrific thing I’ve ever done. All those babies were cute. I mean, come on, they are babies, and why are we judging them anyway? I swear we are now on every grandma’s hit list.”

“Mom,” Mariah whimpered, joining in the hushed conversation. “I am never going to do that again. I’m not sure, but I think we might need a police escort out of town.”

That’s when I gave them another of my inspirational speeches, one I have used more times than I can count. “Snap out of it!” I admonished them. “Life is full of hard things, so stop being such babies.”

That last part got their attention.

According to my daughters, that fair baby show judging will haunt them for life. That’s why I’m telling you this story; with summer fairs coming, there will be a determined search for baby show judges.

Don’t even think about it.

Later, when I called to check on the baby show judges, these two were living their best lives, happily burying their trauma in the fair’s beer garden.

No babies allowed.

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This article was originally published in the June 2025 issue of Missouri Life.