I thought about filing this under Bad Copy of the Day, but it doesn't quite fit, and rather does much better as a platform for my usual misplaced-yet-no-less-incandescent rage. I recently received this email at work (names changed, as usual, to assist in keeping my job):
"Congratulations to Producer Adam Farfegnugen and wife Krystal on the birth of their first child. Daughter Mairzy Doats Farfegnugen was born yesterday Sunday the 22nd of June 2008. This dainty little gem weighed in at 6 pounds and 12 ounces. Don't have a length yet but stay tuned for another bulletin. Everyone is doing well."
STAY TUNED. We're still waiting on that bulletin, by the way. I've lost countless hours of sleep, just lying there at night, wondering, "BUT HOW LONG WAS SHE?" Here's where I'm going with this. I know that it's been the tradition for ages to report the length and weight of newborns. It's the only achievement they've made thus far, after all. But ask yourself -- why do people always want to know the length and weight of the baby? Answer: because just asking the weight is a nearly transparent substitution for "how grisly and difficult was the birth?" Search your heart, you know it to be true. So instead, people throw in the length thing to legitimize their nosiness.
Unfortunately, there are no other questions that one can ask about a newborn or new mother that aren't rude or insensitive ("Does it have all its parts?" and "Will you be eating the placenta?" are two that I would consider acceptable if I was in charge of the world). So I guess I'll be stuck with having a brazillion people ask me these same time-worn, retarded questions when I have a child. I'll simply have to keep them on their toes, I guess. "Yeah, he's 7 pounds, 64 inches. He came out like a roll of Fruit by the Foot."
No comments:
Post a Comment