Mothers — we just don't appreciate them enough. And that's
partly because our memories are so short. We don't remember
what Mom did for us when we were tiny and helpless, when we
drank nothing but milk, when we possessed only one talent:
changing the color of our diapers.

Thankfully, the Japanese have developed a solution — a
machine that uses electro-magna-sonic waves to detect,
interpret and record a baby's thoughts, creating a diary
that helps preserve memories. I began using the Sony
Thinkman during the later stages of my wife's pregnancy,
pointing the antenna at her stomach. Here's what I recorded:

Jan. 13, 2006: Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

Jan. 27: Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. It's so
blah in here. Nothing interesting at all. And it's rather
dark, too. Is this a cave? Am I a bat in a cave? Is that why
I'm upside down?

Feb. 14: I can feel something touching the wall next to me.
Hello! Is anyone there? Can someone turn on the lights? I
think the switch is on the outside. Who designed this place

March 3: Whoa! I think I'm attached to a creature that keeps
moving around. I'm feeding off it. Am I some sort of
parasite? I hope not. I'd hate to spend my entire life in
here. There's no TV or anything. Not even an iPod. How am I
supposed to pass time?

March 18: I can hear sounds from outside. I think the
creature is a female. I heard her complaining about some
kind of mess. I think she just used a bad word. It sounded
like "Men!"

April 7: The creature just tried to talk to me. I heard her
say, "Hello in there! This is your mother." I don't know how
to respond. I can't talk and there's no e-mail. Maybe if I
kick, I can send a message in Morse code: Hello out there!
I'm so glad you found me. When is the rescue team coming?
Please tell them to hurry. I'm dying of boredom.

April 28, 9 a.m.: Something is happening. My mother is
screaming. She's either in lots of pain or just won the
lottery. I hope it's the latter. I have a feeling she's
going to be spending a fortune on me.

April 28, 9:30 a.m.: Someone keeps saying, "Push, push,
push!" and my mother is saying, "I'm pushing! I'm pushing!"
What is she pushing? I hope our car didn't break down.

April 28, 10:04 a.m.: She's pushing so hard, I can feel
myself moving. Ay, caramba! Who turned the lights on? Who
are all those creatures? Why are they cutting that tube? Oh
no, it's my feeding tube! They're trying to kill me! Help!
Help! Someone call the police!

April 28, 10:15 a.m.: Is that my father? What a cool guy!
He looks so calm and confident. And handsome too. I really
like his white jacket. Wait a minute, why is he leaving? Why
did he say, "I'll see you in two weeks at the clinic."

April 28, 10:30 a.m.: Another creature just introduced
himself as my father. He looks like a big dork. I think
there's been a mix-up somewhere. Maybe he came to the wrong
room. Someone call the police!

April 28, 3 p.m.: Why do they keep saying "Rahul" to me?
What does that mean? Maybe they want me to pee. I'll try to
pee every time they say "Rahul."

April 28, 8 p.m.: My mother is giving me so much attention.
She feeds me, holds me, changes my diaper. I think she loves
me. She said to me, "Rahul, you are my precious little boy."
I wish I could talk. I'd say: Thank you, mother. I love you,
not just for feeding me and changing my diaper, but also for
calling the rescue team.

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(c) Copyright 2006 Melvin Durai. All Rights Reserved.