I’m such a baby sometimes - Lori Mozilo

Baby Mason is cute. He’s adorable. Some would even say gorgeous. He has smiling, blue eyes, skin as soft and pink as cotton candy, luscious, doughy arms - the picture of a happy, healthy baby. So why do I resent him so much? Why do I fantasize that he will grow up to be a derelict and disappoint his parents?

Since little Mason was born, 6 months ago, I’ve received a few hundred photos through email, from his parents with Mason doing everything from looking at his feet to Mason looking at the camera. “Not that big a range,” you’re thinking? Me too.

I have photos of Mason “in tummy time,” (Mason on his stomach), Mason “doing sit ups,” (Mason on his back), Mason being “too sexy for his hat,” (Mason with a hat on). Well, you get the idea.

I’ve begun to look for things that are wrong with Mason. Any little imperfection in this Christ child is appreciated. I delight in the slightest hint of baby acne, “That one looks like it might come to a head,” I ponder, instead of cooing over the cute little bubbles he’s blowing. I see a snap shot of him at bath time and get a thrill when I notice that his thighs might be a bit too thick.

I’m going straight to hell.

I’m not a baby hater. In fact, I’m one of those weird middle-aged ladies on an airplane who offers to hold strangers’ babies while they fiddle with car seats or luggage. Some parents are thankful, others look at me as if they’d rather throw the kid out the window at 30,000 feet than hand him over to the desperately perimenopausal nut job in 18C who is grabbing for their bundle of joy. So my reaction to Mason is shocking. I love his parents, I guess I love him by extension, but I began wishing them all ill at about jpeg #270.

I think it’s the relentlessness of it. Each day I open my email and there he is, my
pint sized stalker in Pampers. Yesterday the email was entitled: “M&M!!” that’s Mason and Mommy. Today I received a picture of his feet in his (apparently new) sandals. What’s next? Photos of his soiled diaper?

I try to think back to when my son was first born. Was I this way? Did my husband and I overwhelm friends and family with our love for our new son? Granted, it was before the Internet and we couldn’t have afforded the postage. But, was I quite so oblivious to the fact people had other things to do besides fawn over pictures of my baby napping with Eeyore?

Don’t get me wrong. I’m into my kid too. As I type this, my computer desktop is rotating a gallery of pictures of my now teenage son. There he is swimming, now he’s holding our dog, now he’s accepting an award- oh wait, the cutest picture of him sliding into home base just came up. I remember the day that happened. He was on the Little League White Sox and had been playing short-stop all season. I never liked baseball, but once Zach started playing, I really came to appreciate the sport. Zach is such a great little athlete. He’s not the biggest, or the tallest, or the fastest, but boy does he have heart. And he’s no slouch at bat or on the field, either. I know I’m his mother, but even other parents say it, he’s a very special boy. Oh wow, there’s the picture of him in a hammock when we went to Mexico. He’s a great little traveler too, let me tell you….

OK. OK. I forgive Mason’s parents their love affair. But next time I get an email with “Grammy, Cookie Monster and Me!” in the subject line, I reserve the right to delete without opening.