I saw my granddaughter’s beautiful face for the first time yesterday when I checked my Facebook page, and there was her picture looking back at me, posted by her mom, my daughter-in-law. I can’t wait to see this tiny young lady in person around the middle of July when she’s finally born.
You know, when I first set up a Facebook account — reluctantly — it was at the urging of family members who touted it as a fun way to keep up with each other, and it has proved to do exactly what we hoped. I get almost weekly updates and photos of my infant nephew out in Colorado (named Nolan, after the baseball player). I keep up with cousins and their families. I keep up with nieces and other nephews. I know what they look like and what they’re doing, in nearly real time. I keep up with family members I didn’t even know I had before Facebook, and the families of friends. I love it.
But when I saw that ultrasound image of my granddaughter — sent to family and selected friends by her mom, moments after the pictures were taken — I was literally swept away, thankful that I’m living in an age when such miraculous and wonderful things are possible.
I remember looking curiously at an ultrasound image of my youngest son when he was at about the same stage of development, and having absolutely no idea what I was gawking at. The images were so grainy and poorly defined that it might have been a baby, but it also might have been a bowl of spaghetti and meatballs.
As indecipherable as those early ultrasounds were, however, they were a cut above the method of determining the prebirth sex of an infant only a generation before — by having a wise old woman make a prediction on how the baby was “carrying,” or simply producing a baby of the desired sex by the force of sheer willpower. “Make it a girl! Make it a girl! Make it a girl!” That’s how my youngest brother was born with the name Victoria Lane, and came home to a pink bedroom, but that’s probably a column for another time.
Not so these days. The image of my granddaughter was three-dimensional, and her sweet face was as clear and detailed as if she were sitting on my lap. She was sticking her tongue out, which might have been her commentary on having her nap disturbed, or on what Mom had for lunch. She’s got long fingers, by the way, and a full head of hair, although we don’t know the color because the technology hasn’t come quite that far. I’m betting it’s red, like her Papa’s.
I complain a lot about our growing dependence on new technologies and social media, because I think it often keeps us from having real conversations and human interactions. But I have to admit, it does have its moments, and seeing the angelic face of your granddaughter before she’s born is one of the true, incredible wonders of the age we’re privileged to live in.
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I sure have gotten a kick out of New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg’s latest attempt to save us from ourselves, by prohibiting the sale of sugary drinks in anything larger than a 16-ounce cup. This certainly isn’t the first time Mayor Mike has stepped in to do battle with expanding waistlines and unhealthy practices in his city. The smoking bans were probably a good idea, as was forcing restaurant chains to post the calorie count of various items so consumers could make an informed choice. I even got the logic of banning trans fats in restaurant food, although the french fries never taste the same. Even so, there’s no empirical evidence that posting those calories or getting rid of trans fats have had any effect on buying habits, and they’ve apparently had absolutely no effect on the gross poundage of his constituents, most of whom the mayor says are still too fat.
But this latest crusade is just plain silly, and has opened him up to ridicule — as evidenced by the fun folks like Jon Stewart had over the ban, and the fullpage ad on page 5 of Saturday’s New York Times (sponsored by Consumer- Freedom.com), which featured Bloomberg “The Nanny” in a dress and clunky shoes, and asked the pertinent questions: “What’s next? Limits on the width of a pizza slice, size of a hamburger or amount of cream cheese on a bagel?”
When my best friend, who had never been to New York City, came to visit last summer, one of the places we took him was the Carnegie Deli, where they served him a pastrami sandwich so huge it was supported by miniature steel I-beams. He sat a salt shaker next to that sandwich for scale when he took a picture of the monster, so he could prove to the folks back home that he wasn’t making the whole thing up (he also took a photo of the $56 bar tab for three glasses of wine and a mixed drink he’d so graciously offered to pick up without realizing how much things cost in Manhattan).
He could have ordered five of those sandwiches if he wanted (at least for now), but if Mayor Mike has his way, it would have to come with a maximum 16- ounce drink (unless he ordered two of them). He also could have walked into a pub just down the street and ordered a 36-ounce beer (which, like milk, is not covered in the mayor’s maximum drink size ban). Gregory Bean is the former executive editor of Greater Media Newspapers. You can reach him at gbean@gmnews.com.