In the Land Of Baby Speak
This article is from the archive of The New York Sun before the launch of its new website in 2022. The Sun has neither altered nor updated such articles but will seek to correct any errors, mis-categorizations or other problems introduced during transfer.

I was walking – very slowly – down Clinton Street when a familiar voice rang out behind me. “You still haven’t given birth?” it said.
I turned to find Greg Weitz, macho magazine writer and resuscitated friend, gaining ground a few paces behind me. Coffee in hand, newspaper tucked under arm, Greg appeared to have just stepped out of the little red deli. As he stepped closer, I was able to read the writing on his T-shirt: New York – the “o” in York was a heart – Is for Haters. He could not have looked any more the work-at-home-Brooklyn-guy part.
I placed a hand on my hip and gestured bellyward. “Apparently not.”
“Really, Eve,” he said, after salutary pecks on cheeks were exchanged. “You’ve gotta do something about having that baby.”
“I’m working on it,” I said. Taking his comment as a non-compliment on my size, I added, “Thanks a lot.”
He gave a confused look, then, catching my meaning, changed his expression. “What I meant was, I’m really psyched to hang out with you and the little one.”
I’d never heard Greg so sentimental. “Oh,” I said, touched, “that’s really sweet.”
“What can I say?” he said. “I’m a softy.”
I eyed him skeptically. “Since when?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “I guess since all my friends starting having babies.” He waited a beat, then asked, “Have you guys given any thought to your stroller?”
The answer, of course, was yes. In today’s New York, the features and merits of various high-end strollers are discussed with the kind of seriousness and vigor once reserved for automobiles. In fact, “Here in the city, we use our strollers like cars,” was a statement commonly used to justify spending $800 on a particular set of wheels. But Greg Weitz was the last person I would have expected to be pursuing this line of conversation.
“We’ve thought about it,” I told him. “But we haven’t decided anything yet.”
“Oh,” he nodded. “So you think you’ll just start off with the infant car seat and the base?”
“That’s the plan,” I said. “But since when do you know anything about strollers?” He wasn’t even dating anyone.
He shrugged again. “It’s just something people talk about.”
I eyed him again.
“What?” he said. “I really know my stuff. Over there, for instance,” he said, pointing his chin toward a passing pram. “That’s the Inglesina Zippy. It’s Italian. One-hand fold and the car seat fits in it. And there,” he said, gesturing across the street, “the Techno XT, your top-of-the-line Maclaren. Lightweight, great pushability, 10-second fold. Probably the most popular stroller in the city. But people say ever since they moved their manufacturing to China, the quality’s gone down. And there,” he continued as I looked on blankly, “the controversial Bugaboo Frog. They’re discontinuing that model now. Instead you can get the lighter-weight Gecko or the customized two-toned Chameleon.”
“Okay,” I said, down-boy style. “You know your strollers.”
Greg looked pleased, but he shouldn’t have. I was suspicious and on to him.
If a single female friend in her early 30s had engaged me in this kind of baby gear-minutiae conversation, I would have assumed it meant she was wishing for a baby of her own and felt mildly bad for her. But, since Greg was a single 33-year-old male with a known commitment problem, I questioned his motives. Why did he care? But soon enough, I inched toward an answer.
“And here we have Cobble Hill Park,” Greg said, gesturing grandly with his empty hand, “home to the hottest mommies in the city.”
I stopped walking and turned to face him. “Greg Weitz,” I said, “tell me you’re not studying up on baby gear to hit on moms.” This was, after all, the man who dragged me out to a bar to see if my pregnant belly could help him pick up women – even if it was for an article.
“No,” he said, faux shocked. “But, the hot mommies thing is a generally accepted fact about this neighborhood.” I scowled, and he said, “What? In a few weeks, you’re going to be one.” At this, I admittedly softened.
“All right,” I said. “But then why are you Mr. Baby Gear all of a sudden?”
“Well,” he said, “it’s sort of unavoidable. All of my friends are having babies. I may be the last remaining bachelor, but I’m a 33-year-old living in Brooklyn. I’m surrounded by a lot of baby speak. I’m a vicarious new parent.”
Vicarious new parent – something about the half-proud, half cautious way he uttered this phrase made it seem as if Greg had coined it. This could only mean one thing.
“Are you becoming a baby gear expert so you can write an article about it?”
“Not an article,” he told me. “A personal essay.” Sure enough, he’d pitched it to the editor of the latest too-much-information personal essay column people could not help reading. She was enthusiastic. “The best thing,” he said, “is that I already have the title.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “The Vicarious Parent?”
“Nope,” he said. “The Accidental Uncle.”
The Brooklyn Chronicles, a work of fiction, appears each Friday. Previous installments are available at www.nysun.com/archive_chronicles.php. The author can be reached at kschwartz@nysun.com.