Lockdown

I had children in the eighties, a simpler time.  Cell phones were the size of lunchboxes.  Ronald Reagan hadn’t been deified yet.   Georgia had but two area codes.

Fully ID'd: Clint, with bracelets

In the 1980s, I would put my crabby babies into their cribs, roll them on their stomachs, turn on the baby monitor and fetch myself an adult beverage in another room.  Turns out, they’re lucky to have survived infancy. Put a baby on his stomach now for any length of time, and you could see the Department of Family and Children’s Services at your door.

In the 1980s, hospitals housed my newborn babies in plastic bassinets tagged with hand-written labels.  As poultry-sized pinkish bits of squirming flesh, they were somewhat interchangeable in a crowded nursery.  And apparently babies got mixed up periodically — we’d read (and delivered) the shocking reports — as moms and dads unwittingly exited hospitals with somebody else’s offspring.  Oopsie.

Not now.  As soon as Clint was born on Election Day 2010, he was tagged with an infant-sized ankle bracelet, house-arrest style.  A similar one was affixed to the wife.  When the two were in close proximity, the nurses station recorded it electronically.

On a couple of occasions, the bracelet slipped off the tiny ankle of Clint.  Somehow the nurses knew, and would come running into our hospital room to clamp it back into place.  “The hospital goes on lockdown when it comes off,” one of them explained, straight-faced.  “The doors literally lock.  Nobody can leave.”  I don’t entirely believe that, but I suspect there’s a measure of truth in the assertion.

I also wore a plastic wristband.  On the couple of occasion where I took possession of Clint from the hospital nursery, the number on my wristband got checked first.  It had to match the number on a plastic wristband worn by Clint.

At one point, I casually exited the threshold of Jez’s hospital room holding Clint.  A nurse immediately appeared in the hallway.  “Don’t you ever carry the baby out of the room in your arms.  Until your wife checks out, it’s not allowed.”  She was heart-attack serious.

They were much more casual about it in the eighties.  Were it not for convincing family traits, my 20-something kids could plausibly be imposters.

Meantime, I’m liking this Lojack thing on an offspring.  I suspect there are uses that would extend for another eighteen years.

About these ads

3 responses to this post.

  1. Posted by Joanne Lyman on November 15, 2010 at 8:04 pm

    My daughter is now in 10th grade. This Lojack ankle bracelet sounds like a must have for Christmas! Thanks Doug! And congrats on becoming a geriatric dad. I am sure he’s a strapping fine lad. Can’t wait to see him. Perhaps you’ll need a good babysitter in a year or so….I know of a great teenager. :-)

    Reply

  2. Posted by Heather on November 15, 2010 at 9:31 pm

    When I had a baby 2.5 years ago at Piedmont, there were so many tags on the two of us, you’d think we were the last of an endangered species. One of the tags was a musical ID. I had one on my wrist, babe had a match on her ankle. When they touched, the contraptions would play Brahm’s lullaby. That was supposed to tell the nurses the right mom had the right baby. We joked, if I get the wrong baby, will it play Beethoven? Dah dah dah DUM!

    Reply

  3. Posted by Alison Jones on November 15, 2010 at 10:45 pm

    You never fail to keep me entertained, Doug! Hope all is well. However, I am disappointed that you didn’t name Clint after George Clinton… because that would have been my first guess. haha.

    Reply

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

%d bloggers like this: