Sea Changes

There comes a day in each girl's life when she must throw caution to the wind and dive head first into the vast ocean of life. This is a momentous day, filled with fear, trepidation, apprehension, and, if she's lucky, success beyond her wildest measure. The kind of unquestionable achievement that makes any past doubt seem outright foolish.

I'm speaking, of course, about myself. Undertaking the task of moving Otter out of her baby bath and into the real deal. But if rousing success is what I was after, the universe was determined to put me in my place.

I've gotta admit (and this may go far in explaining a great deal) that I am not a bath person. I find the idea of soaking in a tub filled with warm, sudsy water while a day's worth of dirt sloughs off me a bit repellant, on the best of days. I've always felt the strong urge to shower afterwards, and in the name of water conservation have generally just skipped to the chase. In fact, I can only think of one compelling reason to take a bath, but that involves booze, water jets, and is not fit content for this particular blog.

Needless to say, however, that one does not stick a 16-month-old into a shower. And since the baby bathtub has become rather, um, snug, that left me facing a bit of a conundrum. So I did what any parent in similar circumstances would do. Setting brawn before brains, I decided that I was just gonna muscle through the situation. As I fought the sliding shower doors and the vinyl curtains behind them (yes, we have both - don't ask), flickers of doubt lapped around the edges of my consciousness, but I beat them down into temporary submission.

The water was turned on, the temperature checked and a quantity of soap was added to the mix. As the wall of bubbles began to grow, I briefly entertained the thought that I should have probably checked the proportions before blindly dumping in that much bubble-bath (not the first time this has happened, and usually with disastrous results) but it was too late now, wasn't it? No use crying over spilled soap. And who doesn't like some bubbles?

I dumped my kid into the fizzing foam and shut off the water. Immediately I realized that something was terribly wrong. The distinct sound of water escaping down the drain became apparent. I checked the position of the stopper. Up. The way it should be. Right? I pushed it down. The water continued escaping. I pulled it back up. Nothing changed. At this point, SB was sitting in about 2 inches of water covered with 10 inches of soap scum. Time was not on my side. Saying a silent apology to the Earth, the conservationists, and my wallet, I turned the water on full throttle. The goal was to keep the 2 inch-deep "bath" going long enough for me to scrub down my offspring.

Overestimating my abilities, I had also introduces toys into the mix. What I imagined to be a joyous romp in the name of cleansing, became a mad dash of fruitless swathing with a washcloth while staving off the frantic calls for "Elma" and "kak kak kak" - aka rubber duck - who kept drowning in the foamy abyss. After 10 minutes of mad flailing, it was time to throw in the towel (quite literally) and rinse.

Which leads to the question - how the HELL do you rinse in a bathtub? Letting the water go down was clearly not an issue. But that leaves a foot of soap that child is either sitting or standing in. At best, you can keep the faucet running and splash them down to their knees - which is where their legs disappear into the bog of soap suds. I know people. I KNOW I used too much soap.

I splashed water. I made hand motions. I let the bath mat and the towel absorb whatever lather was left.

After drying, lotioning, and pajama-ing my slick-with-soap-scum child (and scrubbing down any less-than-thoroughly-washed areas with baby wipes), I returned to the crime scene to try and get rid of the evidence. While fighting back the wall of soap, one of the shower hooks (the one cleverly shaped like a sea horse) came flying off, the hook missing my eye by 1/2 inch. That about summed up the evening.

You say I have to wash my kid every day?

Crime of Fashion

There are some very questionable outfits out there for babies. My theory is that since infants have no control over the crap evil parents choose to put on them, they are the perfect target for trying out all those hideous ensembles we'd be far to embarassed to wear ourselves.

By way of proof, I offer you skants, the product of that unholy union between skirt and pants. Mind you, my mother wore skants to my wedding, but those were actually nice. Seriously. I can't believe I just said that.

But back to baby skants. Back when Otter was born, some friends (who shall remain nameless, so as to protect the guilty) bought us a set with a perfectly cute shirt and matching bottoms that just couldn't commit to being one thing or the other. Before you crucify me, I am extremely greatful for their generosity.

My question is, why? Why make them? Why buy them? Why (knowing how I feel about them) did I put them on Otter? Rest assured, SB looked very sweet from shoulders to waist, and perfectly ridiculous from there on down.

Guilt-ridden, I've taken up knitting, and am trying to create a baby version of this sweater. Hopefully, I'm not creating a new reason for the fashion police to crack down.

Bassinets are SO Passe

The time has come for Otter to leave the snug comfort of her bassinet and move into the wide, uncertain world of the crib. For most babies, this step down the road towards independent living comes at 3-4 months, when they outgrow the tiny, portable bed. Otter, being a petite young lass, has lasted 7 months.

But for the past few weeks, we've been noticing the bassinet tilt precariously as she shifted her weight. And with her not-so-feeble attempts to sit up on her own, its only a matter of time before the bough was to break and the cradle was to fall.

The process began with the undoing of a lot of hard work: clothes needed to be removed from Bree's dresser and the crib, which had been meticulously assembled in Otter's room before she arrived in this world, had to be disassembled, having never been used for sleep.

Then, furniture musical chairs began. The dresser had to depart for greener pastures, making room for crib (which would then have to be put together again). And since all of our doorways cannot accomdate human sized furniture passing through, the game had to be played with a detour through the living room and out into the back yard.

Bree was in charge of all things furniture, while I made helpful suggestions from a safe distance. To his credit, Bree both demolished and re-molished like a champ. The rooms were repurposed (Otter's for clothes, ours for housing even more beds) and then it was my turn to convince SB that this new space, where she'd formerly enjoyed rolling around and playing, was now to be considered ideal for her afternoon siesta.

It took some convincing. The first few times, I came back to find SB rolled to the other end of the crib, lying on her stomach, while screaming at the top of her lungs. But, after wedging her so tightly into her sleep positioner that breathing, let alone turning was a challenge we achieved success. Either tiredness or lack of oxygen overtook her and after a few more plaintive moans she fell asleep (or passed out, whatever).

Now, we have a few more weeks to get her used to her bigger-girl bed before ousting her from our room. At which point Musical Chairs will have to be performed in reverse. Rest up, Bree.

Warmest Welcome

Buoyed by the warmth of family gatherings and fortified by the mounds of food we'd eaten, Bree, Otter and I set off to the Ford dealership to seal the deal, and our fate. Since we'd already picked out are car, had it transported from God-knows-where (Corona, I think) and negotiated for the price (on this last point by "we" I mean Bree), we figured it would be a wham, bam, thank you ma'am kind of deal.

We arrived full of optimism, ready to roll on our 2-hour between feeding allotment. The first thing they showed us was the car (clever dealer tactic), which I had already named (my mistake), then sat us down to do the paperwork and bleed us dry on the financing. Having a baby in tow changed things, but only superficially. While flashing smiles at Otter, showing us pictures of their own offspring, and offering encouragement, the dealers thought nothing of screwing us right in front of her. On dealer cooed about eating her sweet chubby legs. There's a part of me that thinks he may not have been speaking figuratively.

We, for our part, tried to relieve the discomfort by doing laps around the Mustangs with a stroller when SB decided she'd had just about enough bargaining. Circling a souped-up, black and chrome, special edition Mustang with a Graco Lite-rider is a humbling experience, reminding you once and for all that that is no longer your life. This is.

But what of it? After several hours during which the ROCK BOTTOM WE CAN GO NO LOWER interest rate came down another 1.5 points, we loaded ourselves up and headed home...

...with the newest member of our family. Warmest welcome, to Owen, SUV extraordinaire!

Finding a Stranger to Raise Otter

Looking forward to a time when I will once again be gainfully employed, Bree and I have begun the process of looking for the person who will raise our child for us. Yes, Otter's getting a nanny. Finding the individual who will spend more time with Otter than either of us will is stressful, at best.

We've gotten several recommendations, everyone from someone's nanny's sister, to friends that various people trust with their lives. In the end, we met with our neighbor's kid's nanny, who is conveniently becoming available just when we need her since the kid is starting pre-school full time. Oh, and they have a dog, so she's fine with Foster. Oh, and in true LA style, I can say that as rumor has it, she used to watch Gary Sinise's kids. That, if nothing else, should clinch it.

Is she too good to be true? Perhaps, so we're hedging our bets and interviewing the someone's nanny's sister too, if only to convince ourselves that we're making the right decision. Now, I just need to be called back into work.

Halloween

This is our absolute favorite holiday, so Happy Halloween everyone! We can only hope that SB embraces the festivities as much as we do.

Certainly, she did pose for the shot like a champ. Though we did get some judgemental looks from passers-by as we set the scene.

But we think it was well worth it!

Otter's 1 Month Old

Yes, it's official - we've gone a month without starving, dropping or otherwise maiming SB. And evidence of her thriving abounds - see how she looks at her toy from inside her crib. Notice the healthy gleam in her eyes. Note the motor control involved in lifting her arms to her head. Most importantly, see how she's not wailing. Wow.

It's hard to believe that it's already been a month. And that it's only been a month. As Einstein told us, time is a relative thing, and the addition of this particular relative has certainly tested the limits of time as we know it. Days both crawl and flash by. Weeks sorta blend together. And in the blink of an eye, it's a month later...

And Otter can grab at fingers, put her hands in her mouth, turn her head from side to side, her crossed eyes start to look at things, and perhaps, a bit at a time the world becomes a bit less strange and terrifying to her each day.

***

On an unrelated, less esoteric note, I love Dr. Happy. More than him, I love white noise. I'm going to marry it, make it move in with me, and keep it on all the time, and force it to keep Otter relaxed and happy. OMG, it so TOTALLY works. This Valley Girl just got her first decent night of sleep...

10 Things I've Learned About Babies

It's been 3 weeks since She-Blob/Otter has joined our pack, and we all apologize for our long absence. What with the lack of sleep and the new being to take care of...

But it's been a very educational 21 days. Here's what I've learned:

1. No Sleep Means... No Sleep
All that stuff they tell you about how you're not going to sleep is true. Deep down, you never completely believe it until it happens and when it does, some dark corner of your mind goes "I SO wasn't prepared for this!" At the same time, you remember all those people who told you you wouldn't sleep and wonder how naive you must be to have looked at their empty, unfocused eyes, see the dark circles spreading half way down their faces and still have thought, "It won't happen to me..."

2. Babies Get Bumpy...
Their perfect, brand new, porcelain skin gets rashy. They also fart. A lot. And time the dirtying of diapers to come right after you've just changed them. Unless they can do it while you're changing them. That gets bonus points. And that activity so cutely referred to as "burping" and "spitting up" can actually take the form of projectile vomiting of milk, all over them, you, your bed, etc. The Exorcist style.

3. Not All Babies Like Pacifiers...
After hearing countless warnings about the detrimental effect of pacifiers on babies' ability/desire to nurse, you would think that the kids are just rubber junkies, waiting for their next pacifier hit. Now I can't speak for all infants, but here's what happens when SB discovers a pacifier in her mouth:

a) A look of sheer horror and righteous indignation crosses her face. I know they say it's too early for such complex facial expressions, but trust me - this is true.
b) The "I'm About To Cry" expression/color change occurs.
c) At the first chance, the pacifier is forcibly spat out of SB's mouth.
d) Depending on how long the pacifier battle has been going, she may still cry, even though the offending rubber culprit is no longer in her mouth.

4. They Don't Like to be Alone
Now this may be good for the ego (awww, my baby wants to be with me...all the time...) until you realize this means you'll never shower or eat again.

5. They Don't Dig Getting Wet... Or Cold
At least not yet. And you can't just submerge them in water and get it over with - so you're trying to sponge bathe a writhing creature who's screaming and throwing punches. They're not the most effective ablutions.

6. They Don't Just Learn to Tantrum During the Terrible Twos
I always assumed that tantrums were something toddlers picked up along the way. Maybe "on the street" from other wayward toddlers. But the real is, they come with the tantrum throwing skill set. When mere crying cannot fully express the sheer terribleness of their situation, and words (being nonexistent) fail, the plaintive cry becomes a full body expression of kicking, punching, rolling into a ball, and thrashing about. You try "swaddling for comfort" then.

7. Babies Teach You to Live as an Ambidextrous, One-Armed Human
This is not a contradiction in terms. The missing arms switches, depending on how you're holding the child. And yes, you can put in contacts this way.

8. Just When You Thought You Could Hit the Bottle...
Your dietary limitations should have lifted, or at least slackened since delivery. I'm not talking to the hard-core "I ate nothing but rice and vegetables for 9 months to benefit my child" set. You guys can certainly indulge like crazy in deli items and the occasional cup of caffeinated tea now. But for the rest of us (the bad behavior crowd that ate sushi, and even *gasp* drank wine), this is a tentative time. I should be able to have a drink. Hell, even the Internet tells me so. But the creature at the receiving end of the food I make now has a face... It's a lot harder to throw caution to the wind while looking at it...

9. There's an Evolutionary Reason All Parents Think Their Babies are Adorable
This helps protect the child from infanticide at 4 am when (s)he's screaming bloody murder and turning purple from the effort. You've now done everything in your limited arsenal of baby care knowledge including feeding, changing, rocking, walking, sticking a finger in his/her mouth and even looking to make sure there isn't an off button hidden somewhere (there isn't). As your child continues to holler, and your dog looks at you accusingly for bringing the Loud Thing into the house, you realize that the only reason you're still going through the motions is that your child is so...damn...cute... An ugly baby would have no chance in your house.

10. Babies Are Human
Despite the bumps, the crying, the vomit and the sleep deprivation, you realize that babies can be pretty damn cool. They surprise you by doing something new every day. They make funny noises, learning new ones all the time. They slowly begin to respond to you. They look to you for comfort when they're lonely, which rocks for the ego. They sleep in weird positions. They practice new facial expressions. And all of them (even the ugly ones) are these brand new, tiny little humans. And that is amazing, and terrifying, and awe-inspiring and makes the rest of it doable.

Musical Chairs

The other day, I went to the CHP office to get our car seat installed. Now, many of you may think that the California Highway Patrol has more important matters to attend to, and there is no real need to involve law enforcement in attaching a plastic seat base to a car with seat belts. You may assume that parents who go the the CHP are either A) too neurotic for words or B) too lazy to do what should be an essentially brainless activity themselves. I thought so too...

Until Bree and I actually took the seat out of it's box and attempted to install it. And by "attempted to install it" I mean took it out of the box, turned it over a few times, stared blankly at it like chimpanzees asked to operate a space ship, put it back in the box, and phoned the CHP to make an appointment.

As I mentioned after my last encounter with baby car seats, one needs an advanced degree to make them work. If installing a base is on your agenda, don't even think about it until extensive study and research have been completed, and you've acquired instruction manuals for the seat itself and your car. I would also recommend a compass and a map, preferably with directions to your local CHP branch, where you will invariably end up anyway.

In spite of all evidence to the contrary, I arrived on Monday afternoon still naively thinking that this would be a simple 2-step process that would have me leaving 10 minutes later, slapping my forehead and saying, "Gosh, that was so simple! I can't believe we didn't try that!"

I won't bore you with all the details of the installation, the 3 positions of the seat base and the seat handle, the straps that lock into magical, secret compartments that all post-2003 cars have (since apparently parents were too inept to just attach this thing with a regular seat belt [and if you're car is pre-2003, you're S.O.L.]), or the level on the side of the seat that will tell you you've installed the base properly and your infant won't go sailing through your car in case of an accident.

All I know is that at one point, Officer Tang was on all fours in my back seat, putting his full weight into the base of the seat, while yanking at some straps with all his might. And that before I left, a swimmee was somehow involved in keeping the seat level. Giving directions the entire time, he was asking if I was clear enough to explain this to my husband. All I could think was "Who thought of this? What did we do before car seats? How the HELL does a pregnant single mother manage to get this thing in?"

The test is yet to come, when we attempt to install the second base in our other car, all by ourselves. In the meantime, thank you Officer Tang and the West Valley CHP for keeping She-Blob a little safer.

Image by Zoonie

Ikea is the 7th Circle of Hell

For those of you confused by my kinder, gentler, apology-issuing persona of last week, fear not. The ranting and raving is back, and it is ON.

For this, you can thank the kind folks who have brought us Ikea, as part of their diabolical plan of world domination.

If any of you have not had the pleasure of visiting this Hades disguised as a home goods store, allow me to give you the run-down:

Situated over 2 warehouse-like, gargantuan floors, it sits, poised like a monster, in some mall complex in a town near yours. Inside, is a labyrinth of passageways through showrooms, exhibiting "rooms" created solely out of Ikea furnishings and home decorating items. Come armed with a map, a compass, and plenty of food-stuffs to keep you nourished during your quest. Though there are signs, placards, and even arrows on the floor, instructing you where to go, their sole purpose it to get you hopelessly lost. Eventually, frightened and dehydrated, you decide that renovating your kitchen with laminated particle-board cabinets is a great idea.

Moreover, you'll need to make room for the hordes of what can only be tourists wandering the aisles with you. My theory on these people is two-fold: either they really got the short end of the stick on some package tour, and think they are at Disney Land instead (this would explain the crowds that stop dead in front of a particularly awful display of lamps or mugs, pointing and snapping photos); or, lulled in by the promise of cheap furnishing "souvenirs" to take back to the home country, they have become lost like you, and have also been wandering for days, unable to find the exit.

Add in a healthy dose of couples how have decided to make "A Day at Ikea" a family outing for their 2 screaming infants and out-of-town in-laws, and you get a general idea of what Sunday morning at this Swedish Design strong-hold has in store for you.

Oh - and -
the escalator up doesn't work;
and the elevator is long and narrow, forcing you to head in, but back out in reverse;
and while ALL the curtains, bedding, etc. are together in the jauntily named "Marketplace," children's textiles, bedding, etc. are in a COMPLETELY different location, deep in the bowls of the furniture area;
and if you happen to need curtains that AREN'T 84" long, Ikea helpfully suggests just cutting their curtains in half;
and everything has cute Swedish sounding names like "SKILHO" and "BLARG" which tell you NOTHING about what the product actually is or does;
and the signs explaining what the products are are in 3 different languages, English not always being the most prominent;
and God help you if you've taken a wrong turn and have to backtrack - Ikea is designed to be a strictly one-way operation;
and the "restaurant" smells revolting;
and there are no bags, so be prepared to carry everything by hand.

Here's what we came for: She-Blob's curtains, curtain rods, lamp, bedding, rug, picture frames, animal pictures for the walls.
Here's what we left with: place mats, bedding (for us), She-Blob bedding, 2 lamps, rug, picture frames, light bulbs, frozen Swedish Meatballs.

All in all, a rather successful trip, even if it has shaved years off my life. My greatest accomplishment though? Successfully fighting the urge to take that 12-year-old kid, walking as slowly as he could in front of me while swinging his arms and stab him with my pen.

I hate Ikea.

Image by OiMax

Nesting Revisited

I found these images among my search results for "nesting." Now whatever you personally think of them, I'm gonna go ahead and speak out and say that I find them horrifying. Just like those photos of babies dressed up as flowers and bugs, that seem to be so popular.

On the other hand they capture the symbolism, if not the actual scene, of what we did this weekend. Which, in short, is finally starting to assemble the She-Blob room/office. Which required the following steps:

1) The "office" was downsized to an office cube and a bright green file cabinet.

• There was much cursing about the thousands of wires a computer/monitor setup actually have. All of these wires seemingly lead to nowhere and contribute nothing, yet the whole thing won't work unless they're connected just right.
• There was more cursing about the "easy snap together" flat-screen monitor. Which was anything but. What kind of direction is "Tilt at a 5 to 10 degree angle,"? 5 to 10 degrees? Really? Wait, let me find my protractor so I can be sure I'm following your simple directions correctly.
• There was yet more cursing when we realized that while the printer fits perfectly onto the printer shelf of the cube, there's not enough space to open it and therefore, can't use it to print.

2) The remaining furniture was carried out of the room to the garage, our catch-all for all items without a permanent destination.

• This was mostly done by Bree, who managed to lug vast quantities of shelving around without assistance.

3) The living room rug (which is being temporarily stored in the office until it can be temporarily moved to the guest room, from which we'll have to remove it - hopefully back to it's rightful place in the living room, once the construction is done - before my parents arrive and actually need to sleep in the guest room) was shoved to the other side of the office to free up a path to move the remaining bookshelf.

4) I mopped the piece of floor I could access.

5) We prepared to move the bookshelf back into place, until Bree realized that we'd be moving it out of the way again to allow for the baby furniture to come in. We abandoned the project.

6) We went to Carters and got baby clothes. This was easy. The biggest debate being "Is that for boys or girls?" We decided we didn't care.

7) We went to Target to get the things we hadn't received at the shower but still needed.

• We discovered that there is A LOT of baby crap out there. And that we still don't know what most of it is for.
• We wandered around like aliens visiting earth for the first time for a while, before grabbing things that we had pictures of in our registry and had therefore convinced ourselves we needed.
• We discovered that Target carries biodegradable diapers. We were actually excited about this. We were almost immediately shamed that something like diapers was now "exciting." We fled from the diaper aisle.
• We quickly understood that there were still things we were missing, though we couldn't quite tell you what they were, and assumed we'd just get them at some other point. And fled the baby section.
• We went to the video game aisle to ground ourselves with a purchase we could wrap our heads around. We didn't find anything we liked.
• We left with a pile of mysterious baby crap, some low-energy consumption light bulbs and two bottles of wine.

Yeah, that was our Saturday. What did you do?

Images by Brittany's Expressions

Gifted

This weekend, the non-baby shower, 3 months in the making, was had. Throughout the past few months, decision had been made, wheels had been set into motion, registries had been agonized over and selected, and now there no turning back from the inevitable.

There were certainly some minor hiccups in the plan - for one thing, back in April when we decided that we wanted to hold the festivities at our house, we had not accounted for the fact that by the time our 40+ guests arrived in June, our "kitchen" would be a gaping hole with bare plank floor and exposed electrical sockets, accented with more holes and plastic sheeting reminiscent of hazardous waste areas or that weird room the kept E.T. in for all those experiments.

We also couldn't have predicted that the weather would be a balmy 111 degrees, making the back-up plan of having the party outside about as viable as ice skating in the 9th circle of Hell. But we were not to be deterred.

Jessica, arriving from NYC in a flurry of activity, decided she was single-handedly going to overcompensate not only for her absent co-hostess Kate (who is off chasing tornadoes right now - no joke) but for everyone else who had ever planned a party anywhere.

I was happily along for the ride as food was ordered, a color scheme selected (and immediately abandoned when we discovered that Party City does not party in shades of brown or jungle motif), poems were attached with ribbons around mini (the only shout-out to babies) palms, balloons were purchased and strategically placed in front of the aforementioned haz-mat sheeting in an effort to disguise or at least distract from it. A trick that for reasons that defy logic seemed to work.

When Saturday, the food, the cake, and, most importantly, the booze arrived it almost looked like we had meant to have a party. The margaritas were mixed, the guests were in place, my dog heroically withstood the heat and prodding of 4 toddlers (one of whom also amused himself by trying to eat our glass coasters and sticking his fingers in electrical sockets), and by all accounts it seems that a good time was had by all.

I thrilled to the lack of shower games! I relished the fact that I didn't have to open gifts in front of a throng of people! I basked in the absence of pink ribbons! But even more importantly, I glowed in the presence of so many friends and family who had traveled from near and far to be with us and celebrate She-Blob.

***

Sunday afternoon, nearly 24 hours after the guests had departed, Bree and I stood in our backyard, hose in hand, surveying the damage. We were sweaty and tired. Literally barefoot and pregnant, I sported a white wife-beater. As we did dishes on our lawn, occasionally spraying each other down with the hose to cool off, we had to laugh. In spite of better judgement, we'd pulled it off. And got some cool-ass swag to boot!

Black Hole

This isn't really a She-Blob adventure, so much as one for her parents-to-be. Still, living in the womb, she's along for the ride.

In short:

There is a hole where the kitchen used to be.
There are holes in the walls of the hole where the kitchen used to be.
We have erected a "kitchen" in the dining room, using the old kitchen island and whatever appliances happen to plug into an outlet.
We have no sink. We wash dishes in the bathroom.
An unskilled tracker could find us, using the plaster trails we leave throughout the house.
Our lives revolve around picking out appliances and faucets.
In a little over a week, we're planning to host a party for 40+ people here.

We're nuts.

Registratus Interruptus

I've sent out an Open Letter to my childed friends...

I've read and analyzed all the responses about things I absolutely must get. Many of them conflict. Most list items I've never heard of.

I've abandoned the responses and stared blankly at endless pages of baby items. Most of them I've never heard of and don't understand how to use.

I've made decisions based on careful research on safety and effectiveness, which was quickly given up completely by colors I liked, cool animals, or if it came in neat packaging.

I skipped categories that seemed too hard. Even if my friends had given me exact items to buy.

And so, I'm happy to report, I'm donish. Just in time to focus on tearing apart my kitchen.

Nesting

Photo by Denis Lepage

I've got a confession to make. In my heart of hearts, I fancy myself an interior decorator. Not that I have any experience or credentials, beyond hanging the occasional curtain rod or photo in my home and hoping that no one will notice that it's crooked. But if I were to wake up tomorrow and my fabulous television career was no more, I think I'd be perfectly happy moving furniture around people's rooms.

I feed the obsession by poring over design blogs and websites, purchasing expensive glossy magazines and occasionally looking into design classes only to realize that they're way too expensive-so-why-don't-I-just-shut-up-and-concentrate-on-putting-together-TV-shows-which-is-what-I'm-supposedly-being-paid-for-anyway.

Having She-Blob could, theoretically, fulfill my decorating dreams, while providing me with a concrete justification for the hours of procrastinating I spend on decor8, design*sponge, Apartment Therapy and Domino Magazine's website. She will, after all, need a safe, cozy, colorful and (most importantly) stylish room to call her own.

Since Bree and I decided we're still way too selfish to give up our guest room to a mere child, She-Blob's fate is to spend her infant years in our office. Now before you roll your eyes in disbelief at our self-centered-ness, I would like to point out that I spent my initial days in a basket and a drawer, so I am, dare I say, providing a better life for my spawn.

On the downside, the office is inconveniently taken up by office furniture. Which poses a problem. But unlike a month ago, when Bree and I faced parenthood by purchasing a chair, we now have a PLAN.

Step 1: Purchase a crib that won't kill the kid. Check!

Step 2: Purchase a changing table/dresser thingy that won't kill the kid. Check!

Step 3: Purchase an office cube that will replace the desk that is currently too big to allow Steps 1 and 2 to actually be placed in the room. Also...check!

Step 4: Wait for items to be delivered.

Step 5: Come up with a theme for the room. This CANNOT be too girly or involve large areas of pink of swathy fabrics. And since the foreseeable future she's gonna be living in our house, it really doesn't matter if she likes it or not. We need to find it appealing. Besides, she won't be able to talk for a while so there'll be no complaining. Jungle room...check!

Step 6: Select paint for the walls. This is more complicated, as the paint not only has to be the proper colors, but must also meet the environmentally safe, low emission requirements that won't send me and She-Blob into a swoon.

We seem to have stalled out at Step 6, though we have considered a stencil border that will make the Jungle Room come alive, if we ever paint it...

Cribbage

So apparently, we need a place to put She-Blob.

The world of baby furniture is a confusing place filled with mysterious, costly items that, we quickly learned, we simply can't live without if we are to consider ourselves good, nay, competent, parents.

The other thing you discover when you start to research baby furnishings, is that they're all potential death traps that will invariably maim or kill your newborn at some point. Of course, this will be your fault, because you're the unfit parent responsible for bringing them into your home.

The best you can do is visit a bunch of stores filled with beds and dressers and changing tables, sticking your fingers between slats (where your child will eventually get a leg or an arm stuck) and behind mattresses (where your child will eventually smother herself). You must watch out for furniture that is too ornate (or your child will get his clothes caught on the filials, and eventually hang himself), furniture with gates that drop too easily (where your child will sever, or at the very least break, fingers) and furniture with nails or screws sticking out (ok, the last one is a no-brainer. But unless you're building the crib yourself with 2 x 4's and a staple gun, this shouldn't be too much of a problem).

On the upside, once you've eliminated all the booby-trapped devices flooding the baby market, your choices become pretty straight-forward. For the next thing you realize, is that essentially, THEY ALL LOOK ALIKE. Sure, some have curvier legs or ribbing, some appear a bit sturdier than others, but at the end of the day, all the cribs look like little cages without tops. All the dressers look like, well, dressers. The main difference, it appears, is the price you pay for the "designer" furnishings no self-respecting newborn can live without.

So, just pick the color of your cage, swipe the credit card, and begin waiting for the delivery. Which will hopefully come before you actually deliver yourself.