Back in my pre-child days, when I'd look at a very young baby, all I saw was a grouchy troll. It's no wonder, I'd think, that the smart celebrities wait a month or two before releasing pictures of their newborn to the press. Even kids with the genes to ensure they'll grow up to be more attractive than is legal in most states start life looking more like Benjamin Button than Brad Pitt.
Not to their parents, though. The average squish-faced, wailing newborn is a specimen of unquestionable beauty to Mom and Dad. When I gave birth, I was certain my son was destined for the list of Most Beautiful People. Rollie was the most breathtaking thing I'd ever seen (and I've seen Robert Pattinson in high-def). He was 7 pounds 10 ounces of wrinkled skin, fuzzy hair, and long, delicate fingers. I sat in my hospital bed swooning over his puffy eyes, frowny old-man face, and yellowed complexion. I tickled his scrawny chicken legs and wiped carefully around his purple umbilical cord stump, enchanted with all 19 irresistible inches of him.