THE REGISTRY

Babies need alot of stuff. Or so I've observed. I knew this before, but didn't really "know" this until venturing into my initiation into the parenthood biz: THE REGISTRY. I held a gun today. A Target registry gun, and aimed it at hundreds of individual socks, blankets, onsies, stuffed creatures (normally from the rainforest don't ask me why), things that babies lay on, things that light up for babies to indicate they have an above average IQ, and things that turn them into adults who will require alot of stuff. Luckily, I can stay away from the products that involve my nipples.

Though well organized, and somewhat cheery, the Target baby section was a picked over wasteland, post clearance sale, frankly: a little sad. However, the sadness factor did not come close to the experience I had at Babies-R-Us.

I had a brief meltdown at the Babies-R-Us. First, I did not realize the extent of the equipment that is "required" for a small creature until I saw it strewn about in a warehouse without organization or purpose. Second, Babies-R-Us-es (at least the one on Western Ave in Chicago) aren't kept up like they used to be. Lots of exposed flourescent lighting giving off dog-only perceptible like buzzings, toddlers without parents smoking Lucky Strikes wandering the aisles, the smell of popcorn covered in poop - its like a baby Skid Row.

As I wandered through this infant armageddon, I went from liberal, politically correct mother who curses all consumeristic attempts to corrupt my child, to worried mother who would feel like a schmuck if this tiny little morsel did not have a Rainforest Jumperoo, bouncy thing that you put on top of a bouncy thing, and uber soft blankets made in sweatshops from the country my baby comes from.

I made it out of there okay. The buzz from the flourscent lights drowned out my screaming. I got a few items that appeared somewhat harmless: about 10 Cubs onsies, and a cup that one sips from.

And, I vowed never to go back. It's not that I hate Babies-R-Us. I think Babies-R-Us hates me. What happened to that cute giraffe that your imaginary child could ride around the store on? I saw him. Lying on the ground. Bleeding from a toddler stomping.

Not pretty.