When you’re trying to have a baby, you feel slightly inadequate when everyone around you seems to have super-fertile uteruses (uteri?) that send fresh, sperm-magnet eggs down the chute like clockwork every month, but it doesn’t matter if it happens every month, because it seems like their husbands just have to look at them and they’re pregnant, and nobody can drink with you so you end up consuming a whole box of wine by yourself, and every month brings multiple baby shower invitations decorated with tiny bunnies and duckies. Sorry. But it’s true.
At this point, when you are attending these multiple baby showers every month and shmoozing all over other people’s babies, you begin to get–maybe, perhaps–a bit snarky. And you start to look at some of the things people register for, and some of the things that are available for babies, and wonder, “Who on earth could possibly need these?” For example:
The Sozo Weeblock Football. Or, The Sozo My-Baby-Is-All-Man-Penis-Cover. Honestly, I understand not wanting to be sprayed in the face with urine. But is it really necessary to make it look like your wee one is clutching a football over his willy?
A wipe warmer. This one is shockingly common, and I’ve seen this at a number of baby showers. I want to think that registering for one of these is the result of registery burnout, where you’re just registering for anything that catches your eye, like when I registered for two different sets of martini glasses. Do I drink martinis? I do not. As for the wipe warmer, I am 74% sure that I have suffered no lasting damage from being wiped with room-temperature wipes, and I am 64% sure that your baby will not remember that you didn’t ask some well-meaning aunt to buy you a device that would warm the cloth to wipe their butt. These numbers are not based on anything scientific.
The Disney Princess Pampering Tub (real thing, real name) is just one in a whole industry of things that terrify me to my very core. First of all, tell me why the regular tub/sink is not good enough. Secondly, things like this are why I don’t intend to tell anyone my baby’s gender, assuming I’m not barren, until it actually comes out of me. My worst nightmare is living in a house full of stuff like this with a pampered (by the Disney Princess Pampering Tub), sparkle-clad, attention-demanding little princess. I am petrified that one of these Disney-princess-wannabes will someday grow up and take a position of power somewhere. Yikes.
In short, my baby will be bathing in the sink, getting changed with a towel over his unmentionables, and getting wiped with a room temperature baby wipe. And will probably end up on a water tower with a deer rifle taking out the town. But I suppose we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.