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the child, being pushed by the mother, and running off. The local news channels played it a couple of times on the day it happened and they went on to say the child was okay and for anyone with any information to call a toll-free number. That was it. The story never reappeared. No instant replay. And they didn’t air it again the following morning for anyone who didn’t catch the nightly news.

  I called into work sick for a week. I was paranoid I would run into the mother again if I went out in public and she would turn me in. Although the chances of a second encounter in the city were slim to none. I took the time to reflect on what happened and why I’d done it. I knew what I’d done was wrong and I briefly considered turning myself in just so I wouldn’t have to deal with the constant paranoia. And I probably wouldn’t have ever dreamed of doing it again if I hadn’t obsessively checked the news channel’s website and read the comment thread below the article.

  Mainly people were disgusted and threatened serious bodily harm to the perpetrator if I was ever caught, or if I had done the same thing to their child. But there were a couple of anonymous commenters who supported my actions, which I thought was equal parts insane and hilarious. One person, who identified themselves as a childless female, posted about feeling the guilt and frustration of being childless and the overwhelming pressure to be a “normal” woman by producing a child. She called me a superhero.

  I had an epiphany when I read that one word – superhero. I wasn’t the only one who was outcast by society because I was a reproduction misfit. I could be a symbolic representation for those women vexed by society’s standards of normalcy. These women could have a voice and live vicariously through me. I felt a sudden resurgence of validation for existing – something I hadn’t felt in years. I might have been born unable to have children, but I could be an idol for all the women who felt the same dissatisfaction as me. I could punch babies in the face for all the women who couldn’t have children and were rejected from society, their families, and partners.

  I started planning. I couldn’t go out in public and punch a baby all willy-nilly like the first time. I wasn’t prepared then and I’d been caught on tape. There were things I had to think about if I wanted to keep from getting caught.

  The first thing was frequency. I couldn’t go out every day and assault a child for a few reasons. One reason was the probability of getting caught would skyrocket. That’s just statistics. Anyone with a brain could do the math. Besides, I had a job and the planning alone took up all my free time. I had to scope out areas for cameras, the quantity of people who passed through said area at different times of the day, and whether or not women with babies frequented the area. And punching a child every day seemed disproportionate to the numbers of childless women. I only wanted to punch a child for every woman who couldn’t have children. I wasn’t sure what those numbers were, but I was sure a daily baby smackdown was too much.

  The next thing I had to consider was my appearance. I didn’t think I could continue with the project without a disguise of some sort. The police were already on the lookout for a woman with brown hair in her late thirties. I was sure there were already a few mothers out there who went into a defensive mode whenever a lone woman with the same description approached them in public. But I couldn’t get too wild with my disguises and I would have to change them every time I did it. I started buying cheap wigs and shopping at thrift stores for cheap, disposable outfits.

  The final thing I mulled over was my getaway. Although my everyday car was nondescript, I didn’t want any witnesses to take down my license and turn me in. I scoured Craigslist until I found the perfect situation. A man was selling his recently deceased grandfather’s Buick. It ran good, but more importantly, the dumb sap was willing to leave his grandfather’s old plates on the car so I wouldn’t get pulled over when I took it home. I met with him in disguise and promised to return the plates, but I provided him with a false name and contact information. I kept the car in my garage.

  Once I got all these minor inconveniences out of the way I was ready to start my mission. I told myself the schedule would be once a month with no set day of the week or time of the day. I couldn’t create a pattern other than once a month.

  I began searching for the perfect area and quickly decided a park was the best place to start since the weather was still warm.

  4

  I wore a blonde wig and an outdated tracksuit with sneakers I’d picked up at the thrift store. A ratty sweatband held my wig on firmly. I wasn’t crazy about wearing someone else’s busted ass sneakers, but I wanted to be able to throw everything away – including the wig.

  I pretended I was a power walker. I swung my arms dramatically and walked up and down the trail for joggers and bikers along the backside of the park. I was worried about exhausting myself with the pretend exercise. What if I was too tired or spent when the time came to run? Luckily I spotted the perfect target twenty minutes after arriving.

  An overweight woman was pushing a crazy looking three-wheeled contraption with a baby sitting in the seat. The kid might have been six months old. I wasn’t sure of the age since I didn’t have anything to compare it too. But I figured any kid who looked like it was less than a year old was fair game.

  The woman headed directly toward me on the path, walking quickly and breathing through her mouth. I imagined she was out trying to burn off the baby weight she’d gained during pregnancy.

  No one was behind her on the path. I checked over my shoulder to see if anyone was behind me. A man jogged behind me, far enough away that I couldn’t distinguish his features.

  This was it. I had to do it. I’d spent a month planning this and it all boiled down to the one second my fist made contact with this baby’s face. I scrutinized the woman as we got closer to each other. She seemed unfazed by my presence and I knew I had to strike. My heart, which was already beating fast because of the unnecessary exercise, took off in a sprint. The anticipation was almost overwhelming. I closed in on the woman. Ten feet. Five feet. And at the right moment, I reared back my fist and planted it into the squishy little face mocking me from its three-wheeled chariot.

  I didn’t savor the visual. I ran across the grass and toward my car without looking at the woman. It took a full three seconds for the baby and the woman to realize what happened. And then they both started screaming. I already had a fifty-foot head start when I looked over my shoulder. The woman was failing miserably at off-roading the stroller to catch me. The jogger down the lane stopped and watched the scene.

  I slowed down to jog and then a walk by the time I made it to my car. I checked the woman’s progress before getting in. She had only made it halfway across the park. She and her child still sobbed uncontrollably. She looked like a charging rhinoceros in slow motion as she tried to maneuver the stroller through the grass. The jogger was on his cell phone. I got in my car and got the hell out of there.

  5

  After each incident I paid close attention to every newscast about what I’d done. I had to make sure they didn’t have any damnable information that might get me caught. It didn’t get sloppy until the fourth time.

  The month was coming to an end and I started to panic. The news channels made it apparent I was a serial offender and mothers became more alert of the people around them when they were in public. The police gave a list of things for the public to be on the lookout for: women in their thirties, women wearing possible wigs, women wearing ridiculously matched or outdated clothing. Mothers didn’t take their infants out of the house, or they were accompanied by their husbands. People became hyper vigilant. I had to get the month’s quota and I needed a new strategy.

  I didn’t plan it well. My disguise was terrible. I gave up on a wig. I tied a fancy scarf over my hair and adorned my face with a pair of oversized sunglasses. I smeared on some bright red lipstick and managed to look like a movie starlet rather than the classy business woman I was shooting for.

  I drove to a nearby daycare center located in a s
trip of businesses. I parked outside the entrance, left the car running, and waited. About five minutes later a woman walked out of the daycare carrying a toddler on one hip and a car seat with an infant strapped in it on the other. She wore jeans that were too tight for her and a sweatshirt. Her hair was pulled into a messy ponytail. I rolled down my window as she made eye contact with me to make sure it was safe for her to cross the road.

  Once she passed my car I called to her, “Excuse me, Miss! Could you help me with some directions?”

  The woman stopped, turned to me, and took a few hesitant steps toward my car. I needed her to be closer. I wanted this project to be a punch and run.

  “Where’re you headed?” she asked and hiked her toddler up on her hip.

  I smiled, hoping she would come closer, instead of yelling at me from across the drive. I said, “I was looking for a salon I thought was in this shopping center. I can’t seem to find it.”

  The woman surveyed the storefronts. “There’s no salon in this strip. I think you’re in the wrong area. What’s it called?” She took a few more steps toward me and stopped a few feet away from my window.

  I realized in order for me to reach the damned kid in