Free Babyhood (9780062098788) by Paul Reiser Page B

well worth our while to make my wife repeat anything I failed to record for posterity.
    â€œHold it, I think I forgot to hit a button or something . . . Why can’t I see his face?”
    â€œSweetie, I’d like to get the baby inside.”
    â€œWait . . . how come . . . oh, okay. I had the lens cap on. Now, come in again.”
    â€œI’m not coming in again.”
    â€œJust go back a little bit.”
    â€œHow far—the hospital?”
    â€œNo, just out the door. Can you make him wave?”
    â€œHe’s a day old.”
    â€œI’m telling you, years from now, you’ll thank me.”
    The thing they don’t tell you in the video instruction manual is that babies don’t make great subjects for moving pictures—what with them not moving a whole lot. And if you train your camera on the new mom, given what they feel is their less than sparkly appearance, you’re likely to get their hand shoved into your lens, like a tobacco executive on 60 Minutes. So you end up shooting the one member of the family who is willing to go before the camera—the dog.
    â€œHere’s King destroying a pair of knitted booties.”
    T he arrival of children can be exhausting not only for people but also for machines. Our answering machine almost packed up and quit those first few days, because everyone you know calls, and never just once. We came home from the hospital, hit the button, and heard a mechanical voice on the verge of an emotional breakdown.
    â€œYou have one hundred and thirty-seven calls. The tape is now full . . . plus there’s another nine I scribbled down by hand . . . and I know it’s not my business, but there was a package at the door which I signed for because it said ‘perishable.’ ” Which, you have to admit, for a little machine, is remarkably conscientious.
    We, of course, saved the tape as a memento of the day. So years from now, our child can hear everyone who wished him well, along with a wrong number who kept calling looking for Rita.
    Most of the messages from family and friends were addressed directly to the baby. Which is another one of those things that’s too cute and yucky, and yet, invariably, something everyone does.
    â€œYes, this is a message for Baby Schuyler . . . welcome to town. And tell your parents Uncle Bisque and Aunt Cutlet called. They’ll know who we are.”
    Or a popular variation—the “bypass-the-parents-and-bond-with-the-kid” calls.
    â€œTell your mommy and daddy that if they won’t buy you a car when you get older, your Uncle Rudy’ll take care of you . . .”
    Some proud new parents will announce everything on the outgoing machine tape, so anyone who calls gets all the vital information.
    â€œPlease leave a message for Steve, Julie, and Spartacus, who was born Tuesday night, weighs seven pounds three ounces, is eighteen and a half inches tall, enjoys long baths and romantic walks in the woods, and currently smells like a combination of pineapple and potato gnocchi.”
    While this is certainly an efficient way of disseminating information, it doesn’t make the caller feel particularly special. The implication is “If you’ve got access to a phone, you’re all of equal importance to us. Telemarketers, wrong numbers, prowlers casing the house . . . everyone—come share our joy.”
    And share they did. No sooner did we transcribe all our families’ and friends’ messages than we found ourselves inundated with the real thing.
    A new child in the house is a huge tourist attraction. It’s like Disneyland, except there the lines are longer and no one brings casseroles. Everybody has to come, everybody has to see.
    And everybody has to hold the baby. I remember being naturally protective of our infant son. During those first few days, regulations were firmly established.
    â€œOkay, you have to