Countdown to Fatherhood, Part II — The Baby Registry

Copyright 2007 by Valentine J. Brkich (First printed in the August 2007 edition of The Point Magazine, Wexford, PA)

When I last left you, my wife had just entered her third trimester of pregnancy. So, for all you mathematically impaired out there, that puts us at just about two months until The Big Day. There have been some noticeable physical changes in both my wife and me over this past month. She continues to glow and grow more beautiful with each passing day; I, on the other hand, continue to grow more panicked and frazzled, while my ulcer gradually increases in size.

Recently, we went to the local baby-stuff superstore to complete our baby registry. Five years ago, before our wedding, we had a great time running around the department store zapping our favorite house wares with those super cool bar-code-reader guns that they give you. I figured the baby registry would be just as enjoyable. I was mistaken.

Don’t get me wrong, I was excited to pick out all the cute stuff we’ll need for our little bundle of joy; I was just unprepared for the massive amount of equipment that’s necessary to raise a baby nowadays. Columbus required fewer supplies when he sailed to the New World.

For all you guys out there, if you’ve never stepped inside one of these baby superstores, you’re in for a real treat. Imagine going shopping on Mars. Imagine entering a store filled with thousands of items, all of which are completely foreign to you. (Much like when I go to the hardware store.) It’s really hard to prepare yourself for this experience. Also, you may want to wear sunglasses in order to shade your eyes from the complete color overload as you enter the store. It’s like a Crayola box has vomited over the place.

Everywhere you look, shell-shocked men wander aimlessly around the aisles, pushing shopping carts, looking forlorn, the ghosts of long-lost frat parties haunting their every step. Meanwhile, their wives debate whether to get the mauve breast milk tote or the sage one. It’s a disheartening scene.

At one point we were confronted by Mr. Stroller Guy who, sounding much like a used-car salesman, showed us the various strollers. “Now this one here is the Mercedes of strollers,” he said, demonstrating the many features of the overpriced conveyance. As he rambled on about shocks, wheel-base and horsepower, I noticed other strollers made by Eddie Bauer and Jeep. I suppose these are for when you get the urge to take your newborn baby on a jungle safari.

Now that our registry is complete, my father-in-law and I have to build a nursery so we’ll have somewhere to put all this baby stuff. He’s hoping to create a cozy little nest for our new addition; I’m just trying not to maim myself in the process. Wish me luck.