I can't believe I left this out of my reminisces of birthing stories. I'm still smiling twenty one years later over this one. This is about my experience with those oh-so-lovely newborn photos some nameless hospital photographer produces. The ones where 95% of the poor tiny babies look like someone pinched them silly. And the other 5% are the product of some mothers who know the routine and come prepared with darling outfits and hair accessories that make the rest of us look sadly lacking.
I did not see the photos of my child until I was dressed sitting on my bed all packed and ready to go, merely waiting for baby and wheelchair and the release papers. I had wondered why we'd never seen the pictures during the two days I was there but they never had showed up so I just didn't worry about it. My husband had left on his third trip to the car transporting all the flowers we had received when this harried lady scurries into my room, arms filled with a clip board and a stack of photo envelopes and asks me if I am who I am. Yes, that's me. She hands me my packet and I looked down at the picture of a screaming infant shown in see-through window on the front.
Oh-my-heavens I thought. I calmly looked up at her and succinctly told her that was the ugliest baby I had ever seen in my life and that this could not possibly be my child. She didn't crack a smile or make some urbane comment about the quality of hospital photos or something about how most of the infants in these pictures look so upset with their little faces all scrunched up like bright red prunes. No, nothing of the sort. With very serious intent she starts rifling through her paperwork to confirm, with a totally confused look on her face, that she had pulled the correct one out of her pile. Aren't you so-and-so and isn't your baby so-and-so, she asked me? Yes, that's correct, I calmly replied as I handed her back the packet. She looked at me in the most perplexed fashion and said (you are going to love this ~ I will never forget this ever ever ever): "So-o-o... you don't want to buy these?"
Nope. Like I just told you that is an extremely ugly child and he certainly is not mine. She reluctantly accepted the package and left the room. I could 'hear' the wheels turning in her head as she left the room contemplating our very short conversation. Probably something like: That poor woman. She definitely has postpartum depression. A really bad case. I feel really sorry for that baby. And on the flip side I'm still sitting on the bed watching her retreating figure thinking why ever would I give you money for those incredibly awful shots.
I was picturing her poor befuddled expression when the nurse came in with our son. How could I not smile at his darling face and glow with pride at this tiny miracle all wrapped up in a soft little blanket? My husband arrived and off we went with me holding the baby, the nurse pushing the wheelchair and my proud spouse carrying my suitcase. I was happy that one: I didn't have that lady's job and two: how lucky we were to be taking home this beautiful child to start our life as a family. We could use that word because we were no longer just two people. We were three.
Now years later I'm thinking "Darn It!". Maybe I should have purchased that packet. Would have been outstanding blackmail material -- could have threatened to embarrass the son with poster-sized versions of the wizened screaming infant sporadically positioned around the room at his 16th birthday party. Shoot. Why didn't I think of that then: Packet=$18.95. Reaction from him and his friends=Priceless.
