Hospitals are a strange mix of caring, committed people and box-checking bureaucrats. The nurse who stayed with us for twelve hours of labor and post-delivery care, for example, did cleaning up and tending tasks that I won't describe here, and she did it all cheerfully, as if she actually enjoyed it.

The nurse during our evening stay, on the other hand, demanded that we track every diaper event on a little form. In the morning, she asked me to verify that Eli had indeed had the number of "poops" and "pees" (medical terms, I think) indicated by my handwriting. Up until that moment, I had assumed that she was simply taking no chances, and wanted to be sure that my son has well-functioning bowels:

Nurse: "Okay, so that's four poops and one pee, right?"

Me (gesturing to notes): "No, there's another pee at 6:40 pm."

Nurse: "That one doesn't count; my shift started at 7."

Me: "That's funny. The diaper seemed just as wet."

The next morning, the picture-taking woman came in to tell us that she would be taking our son for his picture:

Picture Lady: "You aren't obligated to buy any pictures, but the hospital still needs to take one. Here's a form that I need for you to fill out and sign."

Me: "That's interesting that there's a place for my signature. You made it sound like I don't have any choice."

Picture Lady: "We like to have the parents' consent, but we take the pictures without their consent if we need to."

Me: "So you come into the room and physically yank the infant out of his mother's arms even if she doesn't want you to?"

Picture Lady: "Well no, we don't do that. If a parent is absolutely opposed we won't take the picture, but (ominous tone) we make a note in your file that you refused the picture."

The file. This must be that Permanent Record my fourth grade teacher warned us about. You know all those guys in bright orange vests that you sometimes see gathered around a sewer hole? Bad Permanent Records.

Well, I certainly wasn't going to let my son begin life on the wrong foot, so I let the Nazi take the picture. She came back with twenty shots of Eli with his face squished up and his eyes squeezed shut, and asked us to choose which one would go into the file.

Wife (choosing randomly): "Um, that one."

Picture Lady: "Oh yes, that's a nice one." Posted by Woodlief on March 12, 2002 at 09:45 AM