Y and I took what I had thought would be an innocent stroll into the local baby superstore today, inspired by a particular interest in a glider for the nursery. In order to get to the section where they house the rocking chairs, you have to walk through the entire store, front to back. I liken this experience to a dream I sometimes have, where I am suddenly transported back to high school, without any pants, unprepared for a chemistry test that I'm doomed to fail. As we pass the very pregnant women and their dazed husbands, registry scanners bleeping in hand, I start to notice that all of the men have the same glazed over look about them. With each blip of their scanners, they are mentally shelving their home-brew kits, the over-sized man chairs with cup holders, the Xbox Rock Band setup, which will now have a permanent home in the garage in order to make room for the crib. These guys look terrified. They look like they've all won the same hand of poker; but their prize is a ticket in steerage on the Titanic.
I've barely wrapped my head around the fact that Y's growing a tiny alien with hiccups the size of a corn cob. It's another thing all-together to picture that same corn cob in the bouncy vibrating seat that plays music while birds chirp overhead, in the high chair that converts to a car seat that converts to a 401K, in the are you fu**ing crazy, we're not getting that gazillion dollar stroller, laying its baby bum on the organic velour changing pad, with one of 2,000 varieties of newfangled organic rubber pacifiers in his mouth. Just how much stuff can one little baby need?
It's not just the stuff that terrifies me, it's that we might not get the right stuff. Some babies like a swing and some hate it, according to baby superstore helper Michelle, Michelle with godsons and several nephews she's been around since they were born, they are practically like her kids. Michelle could collapse that Chico stroller like no one's business. I can't put an Ikea dresser together, so there's no way in hell I'm going to figure out how to attach that car seat properly. I'm imagining bungee cords and duct tape. They'll have to call in Supernanny, who'll stage an intervention with me at once, decide to make me a sticker chart, rewarding me for remembering not to use the F-word and for properly assembling and then collapsing that terror of a Pack N' Play in less than 5 minutes flat. Side note. If Jo Frost does come visit, I'd prefer she left the purple outfit at home. You know, the one she wears with the white pumps? Just like Mr. Rogers, I prefer her in the khakis and jack purcells. Casual Joe.
After being overwhelmed by gadgets, nipple guards and the intimidating diaper wall, we made our way to the maternity clothes section. I use the term clothing loosely. Y was on the hunt for a pair of maternity shorts with a cushy waistband. The only shorts we saw were of the denim variety, and looked like they'd fit a Cabbage Patch preemie. Extreme short shorts, barely covering the vahoozalie, that some of the MTV Teen Moms wouldn't even be caught dead in. A few nursing tank tops later, we stumbled to the check-out line. From our vantage point, we could see the photography studio, where one of the employees was waving a stuffed giraffe over the head of a squirmy 10-month old. Now that would be a difficult job. Like herding cats. Here's to hoping that motherhood is a bit less like herding cats, and more like training Shih Tzus.
