An Open Letter from the Doritos Baby: Hindsight is 20/20

Hi, everyone. Carter Daniel Jenssen here, better known as “The Doritos Baby” from the Super Bowl commercial. It’s come to my extremely miniscule attention span that my rather abrupt entrance into the world has stirred up quite a firestorm of opinion. Here, from my new perch in the NICU incubator bubble where I’ll spend the next six to 24 weeks, I have some time to lie (on my back, without blankets or toys that could pose a suffocation hazard) and reflect on these events and my role in them.

Let’s cut right to the elephant in the room.

Was it slightly impulsive, even impetuous, to jettison myself like some kind of one-man luge competition from my mother’s womb--for the sole purpose of obtaining access to a gas station snack?

Probably yes.

Admittedly, I hadn’t fully considered the ramifications of my actions; I’m not a “look before you leap” kind of guy. Time will tell if this is just how I’m wired as a person, or just a side-effect of a half-baked prefrontal cortex. In either case, I was met with a few stark realities.

First, breathing is a real chore. There’s literally no training. You just get thrown in the deep end and are expected to hang with the pack 24-7. It’s exhausting. So occasionally, I stop doing it for like two minutes and then everyone flips out. I guess overreacting runs in the family.

Also, I went from 24-hour room service to a couple of DIY contraptions that, so far as I can tell, have yet to be stocked (and more to the point, Do. Not. Contain Doritos. Not even Cool Ranch). I’ve lost like 10% of my total body weight out here! And, as I’m sure I was the last person alive to realize, I can’t EFFING chew or digest solid foods for the better part of another year. Well, isn’t that just perfect? Maybe if Mom had eaten more prenatal Doritos instead of kale smoothies and quinoa, I wouldn’t have gotten hangry enough to make poor decisions like spontaneously birthing myself. Or eating my twin Carl in the womb.

While I understand that I need to accept a portion of personal accountability for what happened, I’m still working through some of the frustration about how this all shook out. Funny how America clutched their collective pearls when a peckish infant got a little ahead of himself, but no one noticed when the three adults in the room—one of whom is a healthcare professional—made no attempt to catch me. Now I have to wear one of those spongy helmets until I’m old enough to date.

After the cameras stopped rolling, that ultrasound tech took off. She literally left my mom and Rick (yes, I call my father "Rick." We have baggage. It’s a long story for another day) holding the still-attached umbilical cord. She muttered something about it not being her job once they’re on the outside, got straight in her ‘98 Geo Metro, and ghosted us all. Savage.

And while we’re on the subject, I feel like my parents postponing my ultrasound until I could arrive “any day now” is at *least* as reckless as my little stunt, don’t you think? Hey geniuses—ultrasounds typically happen by the 20^th week or so. Ugh, I can already tell I’m one of those kids who’s not going to be vaccinated.

They say hindsight is 20/20. I’m not sure if I really believe that…so far, I can only make out vague shapes. Most people assume it was the blaze orange that got my attention. Not true—I can still only see in black and white. But a crinkly bag of triangles that smell like cheese dust weren’t going to slip past unnoticed.

In the end, would I do it again? It’s difficult to say. I’m not necessarily proud of it. But we as a human race are an impetuous lot, tossed on the tempests of our desires. Also, Doritos are delicious.

In any case, we’re here now. 24 hours and one devastating episiotomy later. And we have no choice but to move forward together, toward a day when we will snack together, as a family and a nation.

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