My nursey theme? Death trap.

22 weeks 1 day 

There are blessings and curses to the ever-accessible interweb. On one hand, you can research ANYTHING. On the other hand, you can RESEARCH anything. And everyone with an internet connection and an opinion gets to tell you all about whatever it is you’re looking for. And you, more than likely, subject yourself to their blather both knowingly and unintentionally. Wikipedia-esque information abounds: opinions and half-truths posed as fact, with reputable sites and sketchy ones lacing the internet together, frenemies to you in your search for knowledge and truth.

I found this to be particularly disturbing during my wedding planning (see various blog posts from last year bemoaning the Wedding Industrial Complex and little 20 year old twits getting married who were full of “sage advice.”) I would log on to ask a question about, say, the shelf-life of a particular flower and get 10 pages worth of text on how said flower poisoned a young girl’s dog-dressed-as-ring-bearer who accidentally ate a bit of it and died and how now all brides should definitely boycott said flower accordingly. Here. Sign my Change.org petition. (Annnnnnd insert eye-roll *HERE.*)

For those sorts of posts, I could sort of shake my head and blow it off: Meh. Freak accident. No harm, no foul. I don’t even have a dog. The flowers will be fine. And if they aren’t? Probably no big deal in the grand scheme. 

 I thought that this experience would prepare me for the joys and pitfalls of online baby registry. When the time came (that was this weekend, by the way) to start registering for baby stuff, I knew there would be a wealth of information (and opinions) available to me as I went along the way. 

Silly, silly me. I had no idea.

First off, the amount of “information” out there is unreal. And by information, I mean opinions. And by opinions, I mean crazed rants from sleep-deprived moms filled with misspellings and grammatical errors. (Does that make me a grammar snob? That I literally stop reading product reviews which are poorly written? Never mind. I already know the answer to that. And by now, you probably do too. )

I have been given no less than 6 lists from friends and acquaintances with the “you must have this before the baby is born” items listed there for me (in spreadsheet form, no less.) They are all markedly different and contain 75+ items each. There are even more lists to be found on the internet. And they’re worse. 

But the winner of the title “Most ridiculous lists of ‘necessities’” belongs to the online stores which sell baby swag. Now granted, I know that they are hawking their wares, so I get that some of their “must haves” are overkill. But I’m guessing that some of them aren’t? Honestly though-- Do I really need all this stuff? Friends plus online stores indicate mostly yes. But clearly they are mistaken. Right? 

And so logical me, I tried to break it down as simply as I could: Baby girl’s gonna need to sleep somewhere. And she’s gonna need to eat something. She’s gonna need some clothes, some diapers, the occasional bath and a way for me to move her from Point A to Point B. Got it. Bed. Food. Onesies. Diapers. Soap. Stroller. Six items. Done. (I’m so naive.) 

So, first I decided to tackle sleep. By the way, for the sleeping, there are over 2287397234 different cribs available for purchase on the internet (I rounded…)

Ok, so one of these cribs. I need a crib. 

And then the “research” begins, telling me that I will also need a mattress (by the way, I totally don’t get that cribs don’t come with mattresses, but that’s another rant for another time.) And then I’ll need several sets of sheets, and pads and waterproofing things. And a rocking chair…no, wait a glider. And a Sleep Sheep. And music. And swaddle blankets and PJs and mittens and socks and a hat and a humidifier and a nightlight. So, alright not just one thing for sleeping, but like, 12 things. (Maybe I could skip the Sleep Sheep?…No, that’s the one thing on everyone’s list. Keep the sheep. Fine. 12 things.) 

 Now *which* 12 things? Let’s go to the customer reviews.
 
Ha. Customer reviews are funny. And by funny, I mean horrifying. They go a little something like this: Every time I find a product I think looks good or interesting, something that my friends and the experts have told me I clearly can’t live without, when I get around to actually picking one out from the 29384 available size/model/colors, the research is undoubtedly the same. 250 (long-winded) reviews: 225 that say it’s the best thing ever, 20 who say it sucks because it’s cheap, flimsy and needs to be returned (this is the non-direction reading population generally), and 5 that say it’s the most dangerous thing ever and likely contributed to the (fill in the blank) infirmity of their newborn. 

Wait, what? 

And this is before we get to the “controversial” sleeping stuff. Blanket? Pillows? Crib bumpers? Should I buy these crazy things? If you google (yes, I used it as a verb) “crib bumpers”, after you get through the top ten sites trying to SELL you crib bumpers, you get to the sites with all the safety alerts. And warnings. And recalls. We’re happy to sell you this stuff! Except, it’s probably super dangerous. But maybe not. Whatever, you make the call. No big deal, really. It’s just your newborn kid’s life. 

So, buyer beware! It’s either the best thing ever, or causes SIDS (I’m not making light of SIDS by the way, I’m telling you that this is legitimately the kind of stuff I’m reading daily as I try to make decisions about what this kid needs.) And whereas with dogs and flowers and wedding ceremonies and me having a wee bit of wiggle room with epic product failure, with an actual live person I’m supposed to be in charge of keeping alive, I don’t really have that whole product failure option. And wouldn’t I feel like a jackass if said death-trap product wasn’t even one on “the list?” 

It’s all pretty overwhelming to be honest. And seems more than a little bit ridiculous. I’m pretty sure I slept in a crib that wasn’t safety rated anything, and that my family carried me in their arms on the way home from the hospital, not only not in a new-fangled “car seat” but without them wearing seat belts either. And somehow, I made it to adulthood, remarkably.

So how do you wade through it all? What goes on the registry? What EVER shall I buy to keep my newborn safe and warm and fed and dressed and clean without choking hazards or the risk of suffocation?

I think my co-worker said it best. He has an 18 month old little girl. When I asked for his recommendations of things I MUST have before our bundle of joy arrived he chuckled and said, quite simply “car keys and a credit card.” 

“Listen, you’re gonna get a bunch of stuff. And you’re gonna buy hundreds of dollars’ worth of things. And people will buy you baby gear galore. And then she’s gonna arrive and it’s all going to go right out the window. We bought tons of bottles, and she wouldn’t take a single one. We had to go out and buy all new ones. We bought a pack and play and a Moses basket and a bassinet for every possible early sleeping option. And I swear she was the only child on the planet who actually preferred sleeping in the crib from day one. We didn’t use any of that other stuff. I think that I went to Target every day for the first 6 weeks she was on Earth to pick up “one other thing” we forgot or didn’t know we’d need or had to replace. Give J the car keys and make sure you have a go-to store.” 

So there it is. Apparently, there’s no preparation like not preparing at all. Yet even so, I now have a registry. I have 58 things on it. And I’ll probably only use about 20 of them. But the best news? Only 5 people in the country think I’m going to maim my child with the stuff. Thank God.

A womb with a view

20 weeks 6 days 

 First off, let’s all just take a second and recognize the fact that I’m more than halfway there (unless this kid wants to stay in there for more than 40 weeks. And I’m trying to will that not to happen.) So I’m going with halfway there. Hurrah. 

As anyone who has had a baby, or has been close to someone who has had a baby, or you know, has ever known anyone in the history of the world who has had a baby surely knows, the 20 week mark is when things start to get really interesting. You start to feel kicking. You start to really look pregnant (I really look whoa pregnant...like someone-- actually three different someones-- asked me if I was close to full term last week. Up until that moment, I was still basking in the glow of my “I’ve made it halfway there!”-ness. Yeah. That fizzled fast.) 

And MOST importantly (to most people at least) 20 weeks is the point at which the ultrasound folks can, with a pretty decent level of accuracy tell whether or not you’re having a boy or a girl (or an alien. We’re definitely having an alien.) 

Now let me first say this. I have, my entire life, prided myself on being the ONE person that can, with 95% accuracy predict the gender of my friends’ baby bumps. I’m really good at it. I’m almost never wrong. And so, when I found out I was pregnant, the first thing that came out of my mouth was “Obviously, this is a boy.” 

And I never wavered. In fact, every person I met said “Oh, it’s totally a boy,” before I even offered my opinion. Our parents said boy. All my girlfriends said boy. Yup. Of course it is. We mostly only thought about boy names. I only looked at blue/ green/ yellow/ brown nursery sets and clothes. I recalled the times I had done the “gold-ring-on-a necklace” trick and the shady trips to the second rate psychic. Every single time the same—I’ll have two kids, a boy and a girl, in that order. Every single one of my pregnant girlfriends (and yes, believe it or not, I have 6 right now) were ALL having girls and so just by the sheer law of averages, I was going to have a boy (a boy who would have his pick of the ladies, clearly.)

But more than gut feelings and psychic friends, there was the part of me that always thought of a boy as being much easier and a better fit for my personality. Most of my closest friends growing up were boys. I’m not girlie or high-maintenance or…pink. What on earth would I do with a *girl*? I myself was Daddy’s little girl, given more to Legos and bikes and playing outdoors than I was to Barbies and make-up and dance recitals. What did I know about raising a girl? (Except for the 6 years I spent professionally living with teenaged girls in boarding schools…which pretty much solidified my view that girls are impossible to raise and that a boy would be infinitely easier to deal with.)

 And so, based on all this very rational and reasoned information, obviously, this child was a boy. The day of the 20 week ultrasound was upon us. I was excited for the confirmation of our little boy’s, well, parts all being there and all, but I wasn’t really concerned about that piece. Honestly, because I’m an “elderly pregnancy” this ultrasound was the one where they do a deep dig into all the things that could be developmentally askew: Check for normal growth, ensure that all the right parts are growing at the right rate in the right places, measure skull size for indications of Downs Syndrome, look for face abnormalities like a cleft palate or a missing ear. THESE were the things that occupied my mind as we went into the appointment, not the baby’s gender. 

Because of course, irony follows J everywhere he goes, and this being the one most important doctor’s appointment to be present for in the whole deal, there was miserable traffic that made J late to the ultrasound appointment. I was late too by a few minutes, but J was whoa late, stuck in the inexplicable DC traffic that jams without notice and clears without cause. 

They took me back and the lovely ultrasound tech started with all the “technical pictures”: Head? Check. Normal looking nose/ mouth/ palate region? Check. Thickness of skull? Check. All the fingers and toes? Check x 20. Perfect little spine running exactly down the back? Check. (This, by the way, was the point at which I started crying my face off. Seeing feet and hands. Nothing. A spine? And I’m a blubbering idiot.) 

“You child looks very strong and healthy. Right size. Good growth. These were great pictures—exactly what we want to see at this stage. We’re basically done. I know what you’re having. Should I tell you?” 

“Please not until my husband gets here. He’s on his way. He’ll be so sad if he misses this.” 

Now, up until this point in the story I have had only marginal experiences with my doctors at the center. But this day, they sort of went above and beyond, and being nicer and more reasonable than anyone should be, she agreed to take the next patient, and come back to me in about 20 minutes, thus giving J the opportunity to battle traffic and get there in time so that we could learn the gender of our child together. I was overwhelmed by her kindness. 

“Besides, this kid moves around A LOT. I could stand for some better pictures of the heart and could get you a better picture of the, well, thing you came to see today.” 

And so she left. And I waited. And in walked J, almost an hour later than he anticipated, ready to basically kill people. (It didn’t help that I had gotten weepy during the first ultrasound and he walked in to a wife that had been crying.) I had just enough time to convince him these were happy tears and that our child was perfect and healthy when back came the ultrasound tech. We started again. 

“Well then,” she said as she waved the magic roller ball over my belly. “This is much better. Evidently now that dad’s here, we’re putting on a show.” (I should have known right then...)

Yup. In walks J, and not only does our wee one stop moving around like a crazy person, but turns and lays still for perfect pictures of the heart that we couldn’t get earlier. “Now we have an even better picture of your child’s gender. Do you want to know now?” 

J looks up at the screen at that moment, studies it carefully and says, “Those are ovaries. This is a girl.” 

The ultrasound tech smiled. “Yes! It’s a girl! Congratulations!” 

I looked at her, completely dumbfounded. “Hmm? Are you sure?” And as IF on cue, in one of her earliest acts of defiance against her mother, she moves and SPREADS HER LEGS in a manner that shows us all her lady parts (and yes, we do have that picture.) 

“Well clearly we’re going to have to teach her some manners before middle school.” This was all I could come up with. 

I sat there, slightly overwhelmed, thinking about the news. A *girl.* What? It was unexpected to say the least. (J sat there trying REALLY hard not be smug, but with a shit-eating grin on his face the whole time. He so wanted a little girl. This was his dream come true.) 

And so we left, I in a daze, J in a drunken happiness stupor. She had said girl. I had a picture of the lady parts in my hand to prove it. Unbelievable. 

It struck me that our ultrasound not only gave me a bird’s eye view of our little girl, but changed my entire outlook on this pregnancy. Suddenly, staring at that ultrasound picture, I was 15 years in the future, imagining the prom dress shopping and make-up tips and break-ups, wondering if I had it in me to get out the Barbies and start the dance lessons—things I just hadn’t even taken the time to consider until now. I thought about my mom and how she dealt with a daddy’s little girl (which this child will inevitably be) and how to come to grips with the balancing act of raising a girl to be strong and independent and knowledgeable without being hard and or unfeeling. 

And then, as hard as it may be to believe, I went home and put pink things on a registry. Baby steps, indeed. 

I’m not sure what other people see when they see that first ultrasound. But for me, I saw a whole new world, an entirely new view on what was going to happen next. I’m going to be the mom to a little girl. God helps us all.