During my pregnancy, I would come home each day to find my mailbox filled to the brim with baby product catalogs. Perhaps “baby product catalogs” is the wrong phrase…they’re more like “catalogs which prey upon the many insecurities of a first-time mother through an aggressively large number of childproofing products, proofing said child against hazards that I hadn’t even considered, let alone prepared myself for, thus sending me, already at a pregnancy insanity baseline level of ‘green’ (crazily hormonal), full on into ‘red’ (a maelstrom of hyperventilating panic).”
I guess their phrase is shorter.
The only thing that inevitably calmed me down was this picture in the catalog:
This poor child is not, as I initially thought, wearing a pair of PullUps on his head after a particularly rowdy playdate. No, the tot is wearing the classy and attractive Bumper Bonnet. Isn’t he stylin’? Each time I got to this page in the catalog, I’d chuckle inwardly, and stroke my burgeoning belly as this ridiculous product (and unintentionally hilarious picture) aided me in regaining my sense of perspective. “What kind of overprotective and crazy mother would buy this thing?” I’d wonder to myself each time I saw it, with the naiveté that only a first-time mom can possess.
Funny how a mere (almost) 12 months can change things.
My kid is constantly moving. Not a day goes by where he does not, on at least two or three occasions, bump himself in some way, despite our best efforts to prevent this. Sure, he keeps crawling/cruising on by, basically unfazed, but my guilt? It is copious.
I’m sure you can see where this is going…
…A part of me now secretly wants to buy the Bumper Bonnet.
I said secretly!
I'm normally a fairly logical person. I've made it this far, resisting the baby wipe warmer, laughing my ass off at the Dior baby bottle, and shaking my head at the musical pacifier, but this? I don’t know what it is, but somehow, it’s starting to make sense.
Save me from myself.
I have to go; T’s gotten himself wedged under the end tables again.*
*I kid, I kid. Pretty please don’t call Child Services. He’s actually sleeping, securely (buckled into his ridiculously overpriced stroller, perhaps the one baby product trap to which I fell prey).