Babyhood (9780062098788) Page 4

  So as I would head back down the stairs in conciliatory retreat, I’d think, “Well, someone’s got to eat all this spaghetti . . .” And the next thing you know, there’s twenty pounds of extra Person around the top of your pants that didn’t use to be there.

  And sadly, men going through pregnancy are never admired for the mass they accumulate. While everyone’s lining up around the block to feel and revere my wife’s expanding belly, nobody’s applauding me. I’m part of this thing, too, you know . . . I think it would be nice if just once during the pregnancy someone came over to me and said, “That’s a lovely gut you’ve got there. May I touch it?”

  “Sure. Thanks for asking . . . and if you want to come back in a while, we’re going to be having doughnuts and spareribs. Wait till you feel that.”

  “Y’Know What You

  Have to Get . . .”

  Over the first few months of pregnancy, we watched other couples with babies and concluded that we not only had a lot of things to learn, but a lot of things to go out and buy. People with kids just accumulate an unbelievable amount of stuff. It’s sort of like taking up a new sport. And I have always subscribed to the rule, “Whatever you lack in skill, make up for in silly accessories.”

  “How’s your tennis game?”

  “Not great, but I have a racket the size of an outdoor grill, the exact same sneakers as Agassi, and a hat with a tiny solar-powered fan that keeps me very cool.”

  I figure if they went to the trouble of manufacturing it, there’s probably a very good reason. And I’d be crazy not to get one.

  Especially where your child is concerned. Even if the kid is still in the womb, you want to send the message that every conceivable comfort will be provided.

  Sadly, I had no idea what I was up against. There’s an infinite number of store chains, all with cutesy names that aim to convey both the smallness of babies and the enormity of their selection: “Tot Town,” “Teeny World,” “Infant Hemisphere,” “All That’s Small,” “Papoose Palace,” “Mess-O-Whipper Snappers.” And they really are gigantic. The first time my bride and I ventured into one of these retail monsters, I got literally dizzy. Seriously, I had to lie down. The sheer size of these places is staggering. Three miles long, eight hundred aisles, each a building-and-a-half high—an unfathomable array of choices.

  As we wandered down the first few miles of this store, we tried to familiarize ourselves with the inventory.

  “Look at this—a diaper genie . . .”

  “If you rub it and ask it to clean up the diapers, it has to do it?”

  “I think so . . .”

  “Okay . . . good . . . What’s this—‘Four-in-one car seat’?”

  “It’s a car seat, but the seat comes out and you carry the baby in the bucket part. So it’s like a carrier, too.”

  “So, how is that ‘four-in-one’?”

  “Because you can also put it on the thing with wheels, and push the baby in the seat.”

  “Okay, so that’s three.”

  “What?”

  “That’s only ‘Three-in-one.’ ”

  “Yeah . . . so?”

  “It says ‘four.’ ”

  “Yeah . . . well, maybe they counted wrong.”

  We perused the next aisle.

  “Why would you need a crib and a cradle?”

  “The cradle is for the beginning, and then they move on to the crib.”

  It was becoming clear that my wife was further into the “Preparing Your Baby’s Room” chapter than I was. I still had questions.

  “How long do they sleep in the cradle?”

  “I don’t know . . . a few months?”

  “And then what?”

  “Crib.”

  “They don’t go back to the cradle?”

  “Why would they go back to the cradle?”

  “I don’t know . . . because we have it. It seems like a shame to get a whole cradle if they’re only going use it for an hour and a half . . .”

  “Maybe we don’t need the cradle.”

  “That’s all I’m saying.”

  In addition to cribs and cradles, you also have to consider playpens, which at first impression struck me as no more than brightly colored, miniature jails. Is this really how we want to treat a brand-new person? Poor thing spends nine months cooped up in the womb, and first thing we do is toss him in a cage like a zoo animal. At least zoo animals get shrubbery and little ponds and schoolchildren tossing them peanuts.

  You can also, evidently, purchase a porta-crib—the beauty of which is that no matter where you may travel, your newborn gets to stare at the same four nylon walls.

  “Okay, Junior, we’re going over to visit the Millers, who have a beautiful house filled with lovely antiques and a stunning view of the mountains. But it doesn’t really matter, because to you, it’ll look just like every other place—a small purple rectangle.”

  (This, of course, assumes you can assemble the rectangle. When we later got one of these as a gift, I followed the instructions to the letter, but still ended up with some sort of post-modernistic sculpture/collage of plastic, metal, and mesh netting, which, while totally uninhabitable for infants, is currently on loan to the Guggenheim.)

  The jewel in the baby product crown is the stroller. And if in America you are what you drive, then in Parentland, you are what you push. This department had its own salesman, and as soon as he saw us, the guy swooped down like a vulture in a bad tie.

  “Hi, how are you two this afternoon?”

  “Well, we’re actually just looking.”

  “Of course . . . Well, you obviously have an eye for quality.”

  “We do?”

  “Absolutely. This stroller you’re looking at here is considered the Cadillac of strollers.”

  “Honey, did you know that strollers have a ‘Cadillac’?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Oh, yeah,” the guy says. “Check out the wheelbase on this baby. And the plush interior. Your baby will be riding in the height of comfort and safety. Believe me, when people see you pushing this down the road, they’ll say, ‘Why, there’s two people who really care about their child.’ ”

  This is a guy with an easy job.

  I don’t imagine there are a lot of jobs easier than being a baby-store salesman, simply because you can’t say no to them. You can’t negotiate. If you walk into Planet Tinywood and a salesman tells you, “You don’t need the high chair with the extrasafe support lock, but it is safer”—what are you going to say?

  “Thank you, sir, but we’re gamblers by nature and are curious to see if our infant doesn’t do exactly as you predict and slide right out on his head, crashing violently onto the hardwood floor. That’s something we’d like to see . . .”

  And you can’t believe how many different types of strollers they have. One for every conceivable occasion. You have your heavy-duty, everyday stroller; your pack-up-and-travel umbrella stroller; your “this-is-only-good-for-going-from-the-car-into-the-mall” stroller; and the very popular jogger stroller—which when I first saw I thought was pretty cool, but after having a child, I have come to view as more of an irritant. Because when you have a newborn, you realize, “Who has the energy to jog?”

  It’s my opinion that even conceptually, going from a “stroller” to a “jogger” is a move in the wrong direction. What we need is a “napper.” A big Bed on Wheels, pulled by a team of hefty Akitas. You get to rest, the kid sees the world, and the dogs get walked—it’s a win-win-win proposition.

  And if I can be honest here, when I see someone actually jogging with their baby, I always feel the need to give the parent a little smack. Because if, after being up all night with your baby, you still have it in you to run around the neighborhood pushing something, I don’t need to know about it. (And if you’re so peppy, I see no reason why you couldn’t accept one tiny little smack in the head from me.)

  Ultimately, I say, “What kind of nut runs in the streets with a baby, anyway?” That can
’t be good. Even just walking, I always thought it kind of perverse that people push their kids into traffic ahead of them. The premise is, apparently, “If it turns out to be safe enough for the baby, I will then step forward myself.” I think they should design a stroller you drag from behind, or one that attaches to your side, so at least you’re both taking a risk.

  But I digress.

  Back in Youngster-burgh, we meandered through the first five or six acres of strollers and cribs and playpens without incident, and then came upon a section of stuff I never even knew about: baby exercise products. These contraptions are no doubt well intended, but seem like a cruel practical joke we play on the kids.

  “We’re not going to let you move around, but we will bind you to a mechanical device which will give you the illusion of movement.”

  I couldn’t believe how many ways there are for a baby to be strapped in, buckled up, fenced in, suspended, cradled, swung, hung, couched, supported, contorted, and held. But after enough time in the store, I figured out what it’s all about; I isolated the simple premise on which this huge child-care/child-maintenance industry is based: The Baby’s Buttocks. Everything they make is designed specifically to, in one way or another, accommodate the Butt of a Baby. You’re either resting it, holding it, shaking it, cleaning it, or transporting it. Think about it: high chairs, baby baths, bassinets, playpens—all essentially different places to temporarily park your baby’s rump. Johnny Jumpers, bouncy chairs, swingomatics, exersaucers—different ways to move it around. Changing tables, diapers, diaper covers, diaper genies, diaper hampers, diaper wipes—I think we know where the main focus of concern is here. And, of course, the plethora of car seats, strollers, backpacks, snugglies, infant carriers—all just trying to help you get your baby’s ass from Here to There without ever touching the ground.

  Once you go ahead and buy every piece of merchandise with the word “baby” in the name, you still have another problem: How do you get all this stuff home? The answer, of course: Get rid of your car and find yourself a big ugly four-wheel-drive/trucky/sport utility/“just-throw- everything-in-the-back” vehicle. Suddenly you understand those behemoth station wagons your parents had. But because we are, as a group, so very much more clever, we now surround ourselves instead in hulking tanks—uglier by far than anything we sat in the back of when we were five. But this time they have much cooler names. Names reeking of adventure: Explorer, Expedition, Outback, Range Rover, Land Cruiser, Four Runner, Trooper, Pathfinder . . . Where do we think we’re going? We’re picking up diapers and dropping off a video. We’re not bagging a cheetah and lugging it across Kenya.

  And when you outgrow these cars, you next find yourself in a mini-van, the last stop down on the “I used to be cooler than this” slide. Because in a jeep, you can at least still pretend to be cool. When you’re at a stoplight and an attractive woman pulls up alongside you, you can still smile and convince yourself, “Maybe she thinks I’m enormously rugged, and the car is loaded up with equipment for that very dangerous geological expedition.”

  But in a mini-van, you’re fooling no one. You’re on your way to Gymboree, the side compartments are stuffed with diaper wipes, and the interior is all sticky with apple juice.

  You know what? You’re not Indiana Jones; you’re a dad.

  And Thy Name

  Shall Be . . . Something

  Naming your child is a monumental responsibility. You get to tag and identify—for life—a whole new person. Throughout your child’s life, it will come up every hour of every day.

  “Name, please.”

  “Hi, what’s your name?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “We just need you to sign your name.”

  “Would you put last name first, first name last, middle initial . . .”

  “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “Name and Social Security number . . .”

  “Honey, guess who’s on the phone?”

  “You know who we haven’t heard from in a while?”

  “And the name of the deceased . . . ?”

  And with every usage, that name—the result of hours and hours of debate, and the consideration of an infinite number of variables, uninvited input, and conflicting personal agendas—that name will, for good or bad, represent to the world and its people, for all eternity, your child.

  Which is why you don’t want to screw it up.

  People screw up their kids’ names all the time. Not on purpose. In fact, usually with the best of intentions. The new parents who want their child to stand out and be recognized, who want more than anything to thrust their child forward from the sea of common and interchangeable surnames, are the ones responsible for kindergartens full of Zebadiahs, Queequegs, and Moons. Lovely and creative names all. Unfortunately, these kids are in for a lifetime of quizzical stares, judgmental smirks, and patronizing displays of phony interest, in response to which they can only say, “Yeah, my parents were into a thing . . .”

  The power is extraordinary. The simple combination of letters and sounds you select can result in a life of carefree coolness or decades of expensive therapy.

  “Hi, I’m Jake” versus “Hi, I’m . . . Tapioca.”

  Not to denigrate the virtues of being unique. It’s just that there’s a fine line between Good Unique and Just Plain Wrong. Good Unique is when you call your child’s name and he’s the only one who comes running. Just Plain Wrong is when they’re running because they’re being chased.

  I imagine that part of the reason there are so many Bobs and Janes year after year is that even parents who want to be creative ultimately chicken out. And understandably. You never know when the name you love today is going to be hideous tomorrow. The Ashleys, Dylans, and Maxes of our children could turn out to be what Hortense, Gertrude, and, frankly, Max were when we were growing up. It’s sort of like the jacket you wore in your high school yearbook photo; it may have been cutting-edge that week, but for the rest of your life, you’re “the maroon-plaid-jacket guy with lapels the size of sea flags.”

  Prior to this child, the only comparable experience we had was naming our dog—which is undeniably less complicated. There’s no family lineage to protect, no concern for how it sounds followed by your last name . . . The only real question is, “How does it sound yelled across a park?”

  Some pets, sadly, wind up never getting named at all. Who doesn’t know a cat named Kitty or a dog named Dawg?

  And if you can’t come up with a great name deserving of their species, it’s certainly acceptable to give your pet a People’s Name. But rarely the reverse.

  “Are you coming to Scruffy’s piano recital? Oh, you really should . . . you know, Snowball’s going to play the trombone.”

  You almost never hear that.

  But when choosing a name for your child, there’s a lot more at stake. The name-er can influence profoundly the life of the name-ee. Of course, it’s hard to determine what’s “nature” and what’s “nurture”; does somebody turn out as they do because of their name, or do they get the name that’s appropriate for the life they were on their way to living anyway? Hard to say. All I know is that if you name your daughter Trixie or Tina, she’s more likely to sleep in a van with a band from Seattle than the exact same girl named Ruth. Similarly, a boy named Herbert may grow up to play baseball professionally, but not as easily as Dale, Pee Wee, or Scooter. This, of course, is not scientifically documented or anything, but . . . I think I know what I’m talking about.

  A lot of people tell you that their kid popped into the world and the name just revealed itself.

  “He looks like an ‘Elliot.’ Let’s call him ‘Elliot.’ ”

  Come on—nobody seven minutes old looks like “Elliot.” It takes years to look like “Elliot.” (And interestingly enough, slightly less for “Neil” and “Howard.”)

  If they’re like most newborns, your precious new one will enter this world looking like one of three things: Winston Churchill, Mahat
ma Gandhi, or a boiled chicken. That’s basically it. (It is possible for a baby to look like Churchill or Gandhi and a boiled chicken, but this usually goes away with time and plenty of fluids.)

  In some cultures they don’t even name their babies right away. They wait until they see how the child develops; see what they do, see how they behave . . . and then name the kid accordingly. Like in Dances with Wolves. If you stand with your fists clenched, you’re called Stands with a Fist. I like that system. It certainly makes it easy to remember people you’ve met.

  “How’s that guy doing?”

  “What guy?”

  “You know . . . what’s-his-name, the guy who’s always yelling at the vegetables . . .”

  “Oh, you mean Barks at Salad?”

  “Yes, yes, Barks at Salad . . . how’s he doing? . . .”

  Unfortunately, in our world, kids’ names would be less romantic and poetic. Certainly less warrior-like.

  “This is my oldest boy, Falls Off His Tricycle, his friend, Dribbles His Juice, and my beautiful daughter, Allergic to Nuts.”

  We bought every book out there on baby names, because when you’re not by nature good with decisions, what could be more pleasant than slogging through the list of every name registered in every town on the globe? While it is nice to learn about other peoples, I’m not sure that any one family needs that many choices. You’re probably going to stay within a given range. Very few people end up deciding, “Okay, so, Achmanzlebred if it’s a girl, and if it’s a boy—Scott.”

  You do, however, get to learn the etymology and origin of names, which is useful for parents trying to boost the self-esteem of kids stuck with loser names.

  “Sweetheart, you know Milton actually means ‘Ferocious Fighter of Freedom’ . . .”

  There was a period where our child’s birth was getting really close, and we still had nothing. We were dangerously close to calling him Untitled Baby Project. The discussions intensified.