yellow photos

Evenin’ folks. Happy Thanksgiving to you all! Sorry for missing yesterday, family in town and just a general vacation malaise prevented me. Enjoy today’s simple, but done, entry.

I was thinking the other day about photos. I can remember looking through old photos of my brother and I, or even older ones of my folks when they were small. Often yellowed with age, the colors had been faded or muted by time – and the even older had no color at all, pre-personal color cameras, black and white. That got me thinking about the current state of personal photography, which can be pretty much summed up with one word: digital. In a generation or two, no more will kids look back on faded yellowed photos of their parents’ younger days. Every picture will be as pixely crisp as the day it was stored as a series of ones and zeroes.

I want to talk a little about baby gear. Sharaun and I went to the local baby superstore today to register for everything the expectant parent could dream of wanting. I was blown away by the multi-function baby gear. Nothing has a single function, everything is Swiss Army Knife style: the high-chair is a rocker in case baby dozes while eating; the Optimus Prime playpen magically changes into either a bassinet or changing table; even the cribs can extend their lives by being reassemble-able into beds. Everything is so fancy, so complicated, so extreme. They have “special edition” cribs that have been stylized by famous designers: the Gucci Edition diaper bags and Coach cribsheets are particularly fetching. I found it all pretty overwhelming, and, rather than get me excited about the coming tidal wave of baby gear, I found myself feeling materialistic, over-sold on things of questionable need and over-marketed-to.

As often happens when I feel pressured or pushed into something, my rebellion-reflex kicks in. The double-overhead shelves piled high with Diaper Genies, Table Edge Protectors, and baby video surveillance systems made me itchy; made me want to skip all the fancy crap. People didn’t have remote-controlled, transforming playpens that played nature sounds and gently vibrated while replicating the woosh of the womb back in “the old days.” (Note: I often refer to “the old days.” This is an idealistic time which exists only in my head that I imagine to be some Utopian mix of Mayberry and the time when dads used to smoke pipes after work in their study while their wives made a roast and their kids were at Scouts). People had high chairs built of wood, cribs built of wood, they changed their baby on any old flat surface rather than an EverSterile, singularly-purposed, Governing Council of Happy-Babies Approved “changing table.” People got along fine without buying straps that tie your tall furniture to the walls in case baby decided to pull them down crushingly. It made me want to go purposely simple, old-skool baby care.

I had a third paragraph, but it was the suck. Goodnight, Dave out.

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