I Dream of Diaper Genies
A SCENIC VIEW OF MY PAST
“I absolutely must have this,” I sanctioned for what must have been the ten thousandth time in my twenty-one-year-old life.
My coconspirator, the waiflike sales clerk who undoubtedly grew up in the 90210 zip code, nodded enthusiastically and snapped her bubble gum. “That dress looks amazing on you,” she cooed. “It fits you like a glove!” (Because no one lies or blows smoke up anyone’s ass in Hollywood.)
I stared at my reflection. A Dolce & Gabbana dress was exactly what the doctor had ordered; I was certain of it. It was my choice antidote for boredom and insecurity and, since I was feeling extra self-conscious lately, maybe I needed that full-length coat to match. Then my closet would be complete and I’d never have to shop again.
I’d said that the last time I’d gone out for retail therapy, but this time I really meant it. It would be my new mantra. Then again, there was a pair of to-die-for stilettos at that store down the street that I definitely couldn’t pass up either. And if I had those shoes, didn’t I need an appropriate purse to match? And a scarf? And . . .
You get the idea.
My heart leapt as I extracted the credit card from my wallet. Cash would mean I was actually watching the money walk away, and I’d be forced to acknowledge my addiction. Who needs that kind of self-awareness or financial prudence? Handing over a credit card was just so effortless. Hell, I could do it in my sleep (and probably had). Since I wouldn’t see the bill for another twenty-five days or so, it gave me plenty of time to forget all about my indiscretions and continue with my daily life as if I’d done nothing self-destructive whatsoever.
The girl behind the counter smiled and hummed along to an All-4-One tune as she rang up item after item after item. As the receipt generated, I thought back to the ticket stubs I used to get while playing Skee-Ball at the arcade. I’d been so excited to pick out a stupid little toy like Chinese handcuffs or a Whoopee Cushion back then. Now I’d graduated to the big leagues; that meant I was maturing, right? My adrenaline raced as the register spit out a Santa’s list worth of name-brand baubles and apparel. I numbly picked up my bag, which was filled to the brim with designer clothes. Peeking in, I saw my pile of purchases nestled sweetly in their tissue-paper bed of perfection. I inhaled deeply. I was high now, and I felt no pain. It was better than wine and chocolate. Or sex. Or wine and chocolate during sex.
And then, just as suddenly as I’d gotten high, I came crashing down. The shame settled in as soon as I pulled into my driveway. I rushed into the house before my boyfriend could see the telltale signs. I cut off the incriminating tags and buried them in the bottom of the trash can amongst the banana peels and coffee grounds. I even stashed a few in an empty toilet paper roll for safekeeping.
I smiled with satisfaction. The clothes were formally part of my wardrobe now. Since I’d taken the stickers off, nothing could be returned; mission accomplished.
I looked at my dazzling new treasures, suspended from matching velvet hangers in all their trendy, fashion-forward, overpriced glory. (How else could one explain dishing out three hundred dollars for a pair of jeans that already had holes in them?)
What had I even bought? I wasn’t entirely sure. The experience had been a blur, and it didn’t even involve booze or pharmaceuticals. I’d had another fiscal blackout, which seemed to be happening more and more frequently. I was officially a junkie, but no one sold my drugs on a street corner downtown. They masked them in high-end boutiques with swanky names, good lighting, and dressing-room fun-house mirrors that made me look more like Kate Moss than any five-foot-tall girl ever could or should. I was in deep. I mean, when you spend enough money that stores start sending you Christmas gifts, you know you’re in a dark place. Hell, I even got a pair of shearling UGG slippers one year. How much dough did I have to drop in order to receive those?
Marilyn had her sleeping pills, Van Gogh had his absinthe, and I had my American Express card. I was a fanatical disciple of retail therapy, and I was content with self-medicating. It was my catharsis, my sanity, and my salvation. Except, of course, that it was none of those things. It was draining my bank account faster than you could say “Jenna seriously needs to hire a money manager,” or “Somebody get that girl a decent calculator.”
It wasn’t like a long night spent loitering on a bar stool. No one was there to cut me off, take my keys, and call me a cab when I overindulged. As addicts often do, I hid my proclivities from everyone who might have seen my struggle for what it was and called me on my shit. Instead, most folks only knew to say, “I like your blouse. Is that new?”
Those who had an inkling chalked it up to a young girl sowing her wild oats and, take it from me, it’s nearly impossible to tell an adolescent who thinks money grows on trees to simmer down. Especially when she makes enough money to support her habit.
Not to mention, most folks don’t take a shopping dependence all that seriously; it isn’t a glamorous addiction. And I’m using the term glamorous very loosely here. Heroin ravages your body and tears families apart. The only thing shopping ravages, especially when you aren’t yet married with kids, is your financial stability. That said, it’s no less destructive to one’s spirit, and mine was in the toilet.
I was in a downward debt spiral. I couldn’t go to the grocery store without stockpiling enough salami and cheese to feed a small army. Or enough Kleenex to wipe a trillion boogers. I didn’t buy just one or two bottles of wine at the vineyards in Napa Valley; I bought enough cases to start my own cellar. I was young, foolish, and unstoppable.
CUT TO . . .
They had me at the words baby registry. That old familiar feeling crept back in, and I immediately felt seduced by the scanning gadget I held in my hand. It was drawing me in more hypnotically than Dennis Rodman to piercings and spandex. I was falling (or, perhaps more appropriately, vaulting) off the wagon with every baby bloomer, rubber ducky, and industrial-sized burp cloth I passed by.
MY CRADLE CHRONICLES
Let’s be honest, “gearing” up for your new addition is one of the most exciting parts of the prebirth process: the Pack ’n Play aisle basking in the glow of the fluorescent lights, the lull of the cash register’s cha-ching . . .
Your introduction to the wonderful world of baby supplies can be such an inebriating adrenaline rush that it’s open season on every lusted-after, baby-oriented gadget your money can buy. If you didn’t know it before, now you do—addiction isn’t relegated to Valium and cheap liquor. It can poison your maternity judgment too.
I know you are super excited to have your baby out of the womb, and stocking up on miscellaneous bambino-related junk seems like a solid temporary fix. But before you’ve bungee jumped off the baby bridge, please heed my warning: avoid the paraphernalia pitfalls.
Though we are fortunate to have more technologically advanced, luxury accessories for the modern baby, in some ways our parents may have had it easier back in the day. That whole idea of Keep it simple, stupid comes into play when you’re trying to assemble equipment that comes with a thicker handbook than Neurosurgery for Dummies. Before you go getting wistful on me about the olden golden days, may I remind you that our parents also delighted in decades of bellbottoms and shag carpets? I think we’re even.
THE SECRET OF MY SIGN-UP SUCCESS
New technology doesn’t always equal better, and there’s an oversaturated marketplace out there. So don’t throw yourself at every gimmick it offers!
Or, in other words, don’t do what I did. Because I made enough spontaneous Babies “R” Us checkout line purchases to cover both of us, I assure you. Here are some general rules I wish I’d followed:
1. Baby registries aren’t meant to be a free-for-all.
This isn’t the buffet line at your local dim sum restaurant, so try not to pile too much on. Don’t get me wrong, it’s your prerogative to register for whatever you wish. I don’t begrudge you shooting for the moon and choosing things you won’t buy for yourself; it’s your opportunity to dream big. But keep in mind that people purchase items from your registry because you’re telling them it’s a list of things you truly want or need, not a list of things you think would be hilarious to have. For example, you may not need to register for the kitschy sock monkey lampshade, the Barbie Dreamphitheatre, or the frame for your baby’s future college diploma. I’m just saying.
Registries are best suited for practical items—you know, the things you hate spending money on because they aren’t fun, such as a breast pump and its accompanying finery. I don’t know about you, but breast pumps aren’t exactly what I would consider a party. They don’t have a built-in slot for your iPod, and you’re not supposed to drink any alcohol while using them. I rest my case.
2. In general, your friends and family want to know you’ll think of them every time you use whatever gift they buy you . . . even it it’s fancy-schmancy butt paste. (Thanks, Cindy!)
It’s worth noting that this can work against you if you aren’t careful. If you don’t want your creepy neighbor (who strangely resembles Cousin Itt from The Addams Family and said he wanted to get you something to remember him by) to envision you breastfeeding, you may want to refrain from touting that awesome organic nipple cream you heard about. No one wants to think about Peeping Tom each time they rub salve on their breasts. Unless, of course, that sort of thing turns you on. My advice? Tell your way-too-friendly, weirdo neighbor you’d love a gift card instead of forking over your registry information.
3. Try not to register for too many articles of newborn clothing.
I know it’s tough to avoid the itty-bitty lederhosen or the wee little argyle socks, so if you fall in love with something, far be it for me to stop you. If you’re going to lose sleep over not getting a pair of bloomers, I say they’re fair game for the registry. Otherwise, keep in mind you’ll probably receive clothing regardless, since you’re not the only one who can’t resist making your baby look even cuter than he already will be!
4. Don’t hesitate to ask for gift cards.
It isn’t a cop-out, and you’ll be glad you did it. There will be things you forgot to register for (or didn’t know to), and already having the money set aside to pay for them will keep your wallet happier in the long run. For instance, one of the best pieces of advice I got was to wait on a long-term stroller purchase, which can be a serious investment. Instead of registering for a deluxe baby-bob-jogger-mini-bugaboo from the get-go, we waited to see what would best suit our lifestyle once our daughter was in it. In the meantime, we signed up for a very practical, easy-fold, snap-and-go stroller that Gray’s car seat could lock into. That got us through the first eight or nine months, at which point we were better equipped to know what sort of stroller system was most appropriate for us.
5. You don’t need two of everything, unless you have twins. Or unless you’re purchasing breast pads.
Resist the urge to hoard baby supplies. If you need a therapist before you even have the baby, you might be beyond my assistance. And let’s be honest, most households can really handle only one gizmo junkie. If your husband is anything like mine, he’s probably got that covered in his tool trove of a man cave, otherwise known as the garage.
6. Accept that your archaic aunt Bertha, who refuses to abide by the rules or look at your wish list on “that newfangled nonsense called Amazon” will give you random stuff you don’t need and can’t return.
My suggestion? Find a local charity to give it to if you can’t stand toting it to every family reunion from now until the end of time. There are moms out there who would thoroughly appreciate a nursing cover-up with neon-pink unicorns or a newborn-sized Christmas sweater with a giraffe dancing the Nutcracker ballet, and it’s always nice to know you’ve helped someone out. Even if tweeting photos and caustic comments about the items is a seriously tempting alternative.
7. Reject being wooed by the price gun.
The scanner makes you feel immortal. It offers a sense of empowerment that tantalizes your senses like some sort of perverted merchandise pheromone. Hone your consumer counterattack skills and keep channeling your anti-over-registering mojo. Just say no!
8. Ask friends who have recently had a baby if they’ll give you a copy of their registries, including what was already purchased for them.
Online registries are typically still available for quite some time, and friends’ lists are the best source for obtaining a general consensus of what you will need. When I began the registry process, both of my amazing sisters-in-law offered to share their checklists with me. Because they’d both recently had kids of their own, they were really on top of what was and wasn’t necessary. They’d essentially already done the research for me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m type A, so I still did some of my own. But it was beneficial to have a blueprint to follow. At the very least, viewing someone else’s list will give you a starting point.
9. Consider your lifestyle and be realistic about how your registry should reflect it.
I signed up for a plethora of bottle-feeding supplies because that’s what I assumed I was supposed to do. If you have an infant, you need bottles, right? And if you have bottles, don’t you need the bottle warmer? And the sterilizer? And the specialized brush? And the steam-cleaning bags? Well, you may need all those items, but I certainly didn’t. I’m a stay-at-home mom who breastfeeds. The only times my daughters used bottles were while bonding with their dad and grandparents or when we hired the occasional sitter. Otherwise, they were attached to my boob like a marine barnacle. I discovered, albeit a bit belatedly, that breastfeeding plus stay-at-home mom equals no need for every bottle-related product on the market. Not to mention, some babies refuse a bottle and never look back. By the time I tried to return the bottle supplies I’d been gifted at my shower, which was many months after having my baby, nothing translated to a full-price exchange for the things I really did need. Lesson learned.
10. Put the Pee Pee Teepees back on the shelf and try to focus on items that won’t fall out of trend or be flung into the dark recesses of a drawer in two weeks.
Once you become an expert diaper changer, you won’t bother with some of the extras such as a cover for your son’s you-know-what. (Also, you’ll eventually accept that you’ll be peed on a few times here and there; it’s in the job description.) It’s more practical to stick with products that stand the test of time, which is why I tried to make a habit of staying away from spontaneous add-ons. In other words, I avoided purchases costing only a dollar or two that I was tempted to randomly toss into my cart as an afterthought. Those items are easily attainable later and won’t break the bank if you decide you can’t live without them. Meanwhile, it’s going to be tough (not to mention illegal) to drive home from the hospital without putting your baby in an infant car seat. So don’t forget to register for the important items!
IN MY OPINIONATION . . . ESSENTIAL REGISTRY ITEMS
You know the saying “Necessity is the mother of invention”? Well, sometimes invention is the necessity of mother too. Here are a few things I was exceedingly thankful I registered for—things I couldn’t have survived without. To clarify, these aren’t products I was paid to promote in this book; they just made my life easier, so I thought I’d share.
1. The video monitor
I know some folks think splurging on a video monitor is overzealous. It gives them nightmares of staring into a screen for hours on end, lulled into a hypnotic trance by the mere ebb and flow of their child’s breathing. First of all, I’m not recommending investing in a full-time aquarium channel here. I’m suggesting that there are benefits to knowing what your kid is up to. And yes, that sometimes includes breathing. If you can bypass the compulsion to turn the monitor into an all-night reality show starring your favorite new celebrity baby, that’s the route to go. A monitor enables you to go upstairs and indulge in a pint of Ben & Jerry’s while your kid naps peacefully. It’s a win-win.
The one hurdle of a video monitor is the creepy night-vision eyes; your kid will look like something out of Village of the Damned. This is especially true if your child is anything like mine. Gray used to be very quiet when she woke up. It began at birth—no crying, no talking, just silence. She was also keenly aware of her monitor and had a tendency to gaze stoically into the camera until I retrieved her. While it was unnerving to glance over and see her laser-beam eyes staring me down, I was grateful to have some way to know she was up and ready to start her day. That is, of course, once I’d shaken off the unsettling feeling that her head was going to make a 360-degree spin as she crawled backward up our stairs.
2. The snap-and-go stroller
As I touched upon earlier, this saved us from spending money on an excessive stroller system until Gray was old enough to sit up in one. It has also served as a grocery cart, an airport luggage transporter, and my very own traveling junk drawer. The idea of the snap-and-go is this—it’s a lightweight, easily foldable stroller frame into which you can lock an infant car seat. That way, you don’t have to wake your kid up every time you go into the market. Or Starbucks. Or to get a mani/pedi. (You know, because we moms have so much time for such luxuries.) Regardless, it saved me a million times, and that’s no exaggeration. No mother wants to wake a sleeping baby, right? This allowed me to take my girls along with me, without lugging the car seat everywhere in my arms. That said, if you’re yearning for arm muscles to rival Schwarzenegger’s, go ahead and haul around that car seat. It’ll be a blast.
3. The baby swing
The swing was often my saving grace. When all else failed, this thing put my kid to sleep faster than Dramamine. Well, I’ve never tried that, so who knows if that’s true? But back to the swing . . . It’s like a little one-man show. It plays soothing lullabies and nature sounds, has interactive pieces, and rocks the baby. The only thing it doesn’t do is make gin and tonics or fold your laundry, but that’s what husbands are for.
Oh, but beware of its proclivity for overenthusiastic momentum. Though the photos on the box may indicate a sleeping infant swaying peacefully, the lowest setting can be the equivalent of Space Mountain until your child is big enough to weigh the machine down a bit. Mode one on the model we got was puke-inducing; mode five threatened to launch my child like a human cannonball. Go-Go Gadget Ejector Seat!
Friends of ours wound up putting five-pound weights in the bottom of their swing, just so their son wouldn’t get seasick after five minutes. We opted to wait on using the actual motion settings until Gray was a bit heavier, which somewhat defeated the purpose. A swing that doesn’t swing is, after all, just a seat. That said, I cannot deny the thing still had the magic touch, and my daughter loved it—with or without the movement.
When I had my second daughter, the mamaRoo made our first swing seem as outdated as a rotary phone. It’s the best thing since the invention of the iPad. It’s a practical, space-saving, technologically advanced force to be reckoned with, and it replicates all the motions that keep my daughter happy. Best of all, it never threatened to throw her overboard.
4. The cosleeper
We might agree to disagree on this one, and I’m okay with that. All I ask is that you hear me out. For the first few months of having your baby home, you’ll most likely want to keep a close eye on him. There are quite a few options for this, including cradles, bassinets, and cribs. Your cohabitation situation, as well as your bedroom setup, will probably dictate which of these options makes the most sense for you. Who knows, you may have already decided cosleeping isn’t an idea you are open to. I initially thought the same.
My husband and I, in all our prebaby wisdom, had decided a bassinet would be the perfect solution for us. As we have a very narrow space on either side of our bed, we (rather foolishly) thought, We can keep the baby across the room. When she cries in the middle of the night, we’ll just get up and get her. Ha! Night one of having Gray home saw us deliriously shuffling furniture.
We maneuvered the bassinet in between our mattress and the wall just so I could see her sweet face whenever I woke up. Which was every hour on the hour. To clarify, I wasn’t waking up hourly because my kid was screaming for the milk dispenser; I woke up hourly because sometimes new mommies do that. In fact, since our daughter didn’t cry a whole lot, I had to resort to setting alarms at night so I would wake up for feedings.
Our reality, which may or may not be yours, was that I wanted my baby near me, not across the room. After one week of cramming a cradle next to our bed in such a way that I couldn’t even get up to go to the bathroom, we agreed there had to be a better alternative. Cue the cosleeper. It butts up to our bed, with three higher sides and a fourth that’s level with our mattress. This allowed for easy access during nighttime feedings and the ability to hear our baby when she woke up, despite her lack of crying (which she more than made up for during her terrible twos). I slept far more comfortably and solidly with both children, thanks to the cosleeper.
It also has storage underneath, where I keep extra blankets and swaddles. And how can a built-in linen closet be a bad thing? The beauty of the cosleeper is its good bedside manner. It is one step removed from having your child sleep directly in bed with you and your spouse, but your baby is still in the near vicinity. The best of both worlds, I say!
5. A temporal artery thermometer
These doodads are fantastic. If you dread using a rectal thermometer, and I can’t say I know many people who would enjoy it, this may be your ace in the hole . . . mostly because it doesn’t have to go into a hole at all. This product will be slightly more costly than your average dime-store version, but instead of being inserted under the tongue or in the baby’s bum, it detects emitted heat from her forehead with an infrared scanner. It’s noninvasive, so I’m all for it!
6. The WubbaNub pacifier
It’s a pacifier . . . It’s a stuffed animal . . . No, wait, it’s a pacifier and a stuffed animal! It’s also a magic sleep-inducer, and infants can grab onto it a lot sooner than they can a normal binky. If you’re going the pacifier route at all, this is the one. Can you tell I’m a huge fan? I warn you, however, these little guys are addicting.
We’ve owned eight animal pacifiers between my two girls (though Giraffe and Monkey both met untimely ends, which was traumatizing for all of us), and in our house we’ve fondly termed them “Wubbies.” Unfortunately, the Wubbies have proven to be a difficult habit to break. Convincing Gray to give up her “friends” was met with more resistance than the return of Hammer pants. I had an easier time potty training her. Which, no joke, actually happened first.
As a side note, a company called Uggogg and Inny makes stuffed animals that attach to pacifiers, so you can throw out the old pacifier without torturing your kid by also trashing his beloved toy. Brilliant!
7. A housekeeper
Though I’m generally not one to splurge on something so luxurious, and my husband and I prefer to handle our home affairs on our own, sometimes short-term help is a necessity. Admittedly, this isn’t something we could have registered for at any of the major baby outlets, and we probably wouldn’t have thought to do it anyway. That said, my mom and aunt hired us a housekeeper for the two months following the birth of both girls, and it was the single biggest help. Talk about the gift that kept on giving! With five dogs, a newborn baby, and the inability to catch up on much-needed sleep, who has time to bleach the shower and mop the floors? Having someone come out to deep clean every couple of weeks was a blessing we accepted with open arms. I can’t recommend it more highly!
IN MY OPINIONATION . . . OVERRATED ITEMS
Here’s a list of things I wound up deeming overrated. Don’t just take my word for it, though, because I could totally be wrong about some of these items . . .
1. Nursing pillows
Though I agree that propping your baby up while breastfeeding is essential, not one nursing pillow I tried did a whole lot to assist me. Perhaps if you are a bit better endowed than I am, you’ll find it easier. Basically, if you’re Pam Anderson, you might have a better chance of your boobs and your baby meeting in the middle. Since I’m slightly lacking in that department, I was stuck slouching to get milk to my daughter regardless of my snazzy, stylishly printed helper. It was like having a well-dressed assistant who took calls for me but didn’t include names and phone numbers on my message slips. It all fell a bit short. I was forced to hold the pillow up, along with my baby, which just made the whole thing more cumbersome and difficult. And learning to nurse a newborn is hard enough as it is! I ultimately resorted to putting a second pillow under the first for additional support. I also had a C-section with both girls, so I couldn’t rest a nursing pillow against my stitches for a few weeks after, which rendered having one pointless.
On their own, most of the nursing pillows I found were just too soft to hold my daughters up to my liking. This isn’t to say there aren’t some out there that provide more support. There probably are, and I’m planning to try every one of them if I have a third child. For now, however, I’m keeping to my assessment: I should have stuck to using our couch pillows. They essentially did the same thing, and I didn’t have to spend any extra money on them.
As an aside, if you do get a nursing pillow, make sure to get a separate cover for it so you can remove and wash it. It’s bound to be covered in spit-up in no time flat.
2. Baby backpacks and frontpacks
I see the day care moms wearing these things like a fashion accessory, and I imagine them in their little cliques squawking, “Baby carriers are the new black—didn’t you know?”
Actually, most folks I know swear by them. In fact, I know babies whose feet haven’t touched the ground in months! I really wanted to love using a carrier too, but I found that I’m just too damn short to be comfortable in any of the ones I tried. Apparently the majority of them aren’t designed for munchkins, horse jockeys, or former child stars with semistunted growth. Not that it isn’t fun to sport a baby while simultaneously carrying groceries, texting my husband, and humming “She Works Hard for the Money,” but I just never got on board. They tugged on my lower back and stealthily pushed my pants down until I was exposing things that could have landed me on the cover of the gossip mags. Or at least on one of those Images of Walmart Shoppers websites. I discovered a one-piece fabric wrap that worked better for my needs, as it didn’t have any metal bars, plastic buckles, adjustable waist belts, or befuddling crisscross harnesses that made me feel like I was voluntarily stuffing myself into an Edwardian corset. It also didn’t require a ten-man team to get it on. By the time I strapped on the bigger badass carriers by myself, my daughter could have been applying for colleges. I just couldn’t find a decent method of getting them on without help, and here’s a shocker—you can’t ask a newborn to adjust a back clasp for you.
My husband, on the other hand, loved wearing the baby carrier. He felt it was perfectly comfy and encouraged his bonding time with our daughters. Of course, he’s not knee-high to a grasshopper like I am.
3. Musical crib mobiles
To be fair, this item didn’t end up on my registry because I’ve never been a big fan. Some people love them; I just don’t personally get it. For the most part, I find them to be aesthetically unappealing and as overstimulating as watching Magic Mike. I mean, how many times can you follow the costume-clad sheep around in a circle without getting dizzy? In my opinion, there’s enough spit-up happening without the added incentive. Also, I’ve found that many mobiles are accompanied by creepy Muzak versions of nursery rhymes. I’d rather not encourage my kids to have nightmares of being trapped in an elevator with Kenny G and a herd of dancing mutton.
Instead of dangling, discordant zoo animals, we hung paper lanterns and tulle pom-poms in our nursery. They offered a quieter, but still colorful, novelty to fixate on while waiting for Mr. Sandman to make his appearance.
4. The Pack ’n Play
I’m not at all confused why this item is beneficial. For your sake, I hope your kid begs to be put in one of these doohickeys so you can free your arms for a rare fifteen minutes. You know, just long enough to vacuum the living room or cram a piece of pizza down your gullet.
I, on the other hand, had a child who took to the Pack ’n Play like cats take to water. I couldn’t put Gray in there for fifteen seconds, much less fifteen minutes. By the ceaseless howling and tears, you’d have thought I was sending her to solitary confinement at Rikers Island, equipped with only a pacifier. That contraption was also harder to close than a confessional after spring break, so . . . there was that. After numerous attempts that resulted in meltdowns of mythic proportions, I gave up on any hope of putting the minislammer to good use.
Once Marlowe came along, we were gifted with a wonderful product called the Breeze Playard. The Playard put Mr. Pack ’n Play to shame, so he was banished to our attic like an expatriate. I can’t say he has been missed.
Then again, he did make one hell of a laundry hamper.
5. The baby bouncer (the sort that attaches to a door frame)
I recall my little sister jumping in one of these things for hours on end when we were kids. Granted, it was probably closer to ten minutes, but it seemed like forever at the time. I can still picture her beautifully toothless smile and that adorable drool flying every which way as she jumped to her heart’s content. She was like a midget kangaroo in Garanimals overalls. Meanwhile, my mom was rewarded with some quality time to herself. Of course, by that I mean she was helping me flip through vocabulary flashcards for school with one hand and changing my brother’s diaper with the other. She might even have had enough “time to herself” to simultaneously assemble our sandwiches.
With that in mind, I immediately registered for a similar apparatus. Yet again, I was thwarted by a rig designed for larger children. As with the swing I spoke of earlier, size really does matter. Both of my girls were too petite to fit in the bucket seat. Within minutes, their little bottoms would slide through one of the leg holes, aggressively pushing their diapers aside and causing them to bare more cheek than one might see at a Miley Cyrus concert. If your child is a bit more on the average side of the height-and-weight charts, you might have an easier time with this one than we did. By the time our first daughter was big enough to sit properly in the bouncer, she was old enough to say, “Get me out of this thing!” and “Can you put three olives in my martini today? Make it a double.”
6. Designer baby clothes
Newborns don’t care if they’re wearing delicately hand-stitched knickers from Gucci or if their bibs are kept in a Prada diaper bag.
I spent the majority of my sitcom career thinking I had to dress to impress. I was convinced (courtesy of the distorted Los Angeles magnifying glass I was squirming under) that I had to buy costly, name-brand apparel to be accepted by my peers and critics. Who, as luck would have it, were often one and the same. As evidenced earlier by the “Scenic View of My Past,” I was ruthlessly caught up in the idea that designer clothes were equivalent to a happier, more confident, more alluring me. Babies don’t have the same penchant for throwing credit cards at their discomfort. Thank God. They don’t resort to fixating on labels in an effort to nurture their spirits. As far as they’re concerned, a lactating boob will do just fine.
I won’t pretend I’m not fond of nice things or that I don’t encourage self-expression through one’s wardrobe, but I recommend refraining from spending your child’s college fund on mini Versace wear. I know there will come a day when my girls are begging for the newest jeans or the most stylish shoes, but right now they don’t know the difference between something off the Target clearance rack and a pair of toddler-sized Jimmy Choos. Every high-end thread my daughters own was given to them by someone else, and I’d like to keep it that way. I swear you can make outfits look just as cute on a tighter budget. Your kids will grow out of their clothes so quickly it’ll make your head spin, so you may want to keep your inner retail monster from going on a rampage at Barney’s New York. If you’re really partial to trendy fashions, I strongly recommend consignment. It’s significantly cheaper, so you’ll have a better chance of feeling guilt-free when the credit card bill comes in. You also won’t feel as bad when your kid poops all over himself five minutes after you’ve put the outfit on him. Because poop doesn’t care if you blew your whole paycheck to buy the Burberry baby romper.
MILLION-DOLLAR BABY?
I hope this chapter has helped you contemplate what to register for and/or what to make sure you have on hand when you bring baby home from the hospital. There’s really no way I can provide you with a comprehensive list of everything you’ll need, as it differs for each of us; my goal was merely to get the ball rolling. If you’re anything like me, you’ll spend the next nine months overthinking everything and worrying you’ll forget to acquire something important that causes you to epically fail parenthood on day one. The truth is that no one is keeping score but you, and a newborn requires less stuff than one would think. Our parents relied on far fewer material items and technological advances than we do nowadays, and we turned out just fine, right? Sort of?
So long as you have your infant car seat installed, some sort of bassinet, crib, or cosleeper of your choice, diapers and wipes, a few bodysuits that snap, and a breast or bottle full of milk or formula, you’re on the right track. You can send your frazzled husband out to retrieve the rest while you’re attempting to sweet-talk the baby through hour forty of nonstop bawling. Your husband will welcome the interruption, even if it means asking the salesperson to hand over the disposable nursing pads.
THE MORAL OF MY STORY
Whoever coined the phrase sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll never experienced the high of shopping for their own baby registry. I found myself amassing diapers like they were about to be discontinued and hiding a secret Onesie stash in my lingerie drawer. Here’s hoping you exercise significantly more willpower than yours truly!