Babyhood (9780062098788) by Paul Reiser Page A

store their really creative choices. That way the name is there , but not everybody has to know about it. Unless you want them to. So when you meet kids named Stanley DiMaggio Miller or Carol Satchmo Smith, you know their parents had healthy doses of not only creative sparks but discretion, too.
    T he moment you announce your child’s name, people take it in for a moment, digest it, and then say, “Okay, but what are you going to call him?”
    â€œWhat do you mean, what are we going to call him? His name.”
    â€œNo, of course, but what’s the nickname going to be? I mean, Franklin is a beautiful name, but what do we call him? Frank? Frankie? Frankle? Frankfurter?”
    This was a setback I hadn’t seen coming. After finally landing on a name the two of you like, your family tells you it’s not enough. You have to come up with a menu of officially sanctioned deviations and nicknames, which they’re going to disregard anyway.
    â€œHello, Snooky . . . Hello, Angel-puss . . . Who’s my sweet Pumpkin . . . ?”
    They get called a lot of foods , these babies. “Pumpkin,” “Angel Cake,” “Cupcake,” “Ducky,” “Honey,” “Sweet Potato,” “Sweet Pea,” “Sugarplum,” “Peaches,” “Pudding” . . .
    But not all foods. You never hear someone call an infant “Steak.” “Chicken Parmigiana.” “Rice Cracker.” “Eggs.”
    I think the rule of thumb is, desserts and side dishes are okay, entrées and appetizers, not okay. The only exceptions that I’m aware of are my Aunt Cutlet and Uncle Bisque, who were actually born with those names but, ironically, were later nicknamed Phyllis and Lloyd.

One Sonogram Says
a Thousand Words
    F rom what I gather, seeing a gynecologist is not like seeing any other kind of doctor. It’s more like seeing a Therapist Who Also Examines the Inner Reaches of Your Genitalia. Women bond with their gynecologists.
    Men have none of this. You rarely hear men say, “I just love my proctologist.” Or, “I really need a urologist I can talk to.”
    For women, though, this relationship is very complex. Among other considerations, the gender of their gynecologist can be a big issue. And often for men, too. Because these people are looking at other people’s wives naked. And I know they’re professional, and it’s “just a job,” but still, come on . . . women are coming in one after the other and taking their clothes off. Maybe I’m developmentally arrested, but that’s gotta count as something, doesn’t it?
    And if these men are entirely professional, and view their patients solely as patients and not as Women, I would ask, “How come? Are you telling me my wife is sitting there naked and you don’t even notice? I ought to slap you right here and now.”
    There’s no way to win on this one. If you walked into a bar full of drunken gynecologists and overheard your wife’s guy say, “You know who’s really great looking . . .” and he started describing your wife, you probably wouldn’t be happy. And if they went the other way and said, “I’ll tell you who was really gorgeous . . .” and proceeded to talk about someone not your wife, you could get upset, too.
    â€œWhat do you mean? Are you going to sit there and tell me your ten-forty-five appointment was cuter than my wife? You may have to get slapped yet again.”
    I t turns out my wife’s doctor was a very nice guy. Each visit began with the usual exchange of quasi-personal pleasantries—as if a perfunctory “Nice to see you, how’s your dog?” would somehow distract from the fact that his forearm was disappearing into the woman I love.
    Anytime the three of us were in the room together, it felt like only two of us could be a couple at one