That seems like a good title for a post on writing fiction. Alas, what follows is a true and somewhat frightening tale of my new life. Sometime soon, I will become a father, a change which requires forays into heretofore unknown territory. Awhile back, we ventured into the baby store. I had never been. Didn't know they existed to such degree and had no idea the amount of stuff babies need. Thank heavens they put everything on display to help me. It was quite daunting for someone who not only didn't know anything, but who didn't know what it was I didn't know. Did that make sense? Let me try again.
It's not that I didn't know the answers. It's that I didn't know there were subjects about which questions existed that required answers. If you're still confused, read the definition of froggered.
Well I sure was glad the people at the baby store put everything so clearly on display, because not knowing what one needs becomes a bit less challenging when they just show you that you need everything. And we must because it was all there, bright and colorful at every turn. Of course I'll need a new home to fit it all. And a large garage. And a warehouse. Or perhaps they would let us take up residence in a small corner of the store. This would add the convenience of having a baby photo studio right in our home, which, they (along with a few others) so helpfully informed me, is one more thing we need. So while everyone may continue to tell us everything we need, and I will foolishly suggest we wait until we see whether we need it, I can relax in knowing it is readily available somewhere on the very high shelves of our new home, open to the public Mon thru Sat 9 - 9 and Sundays 11 - 6.
However, on the off chance they don't let us move into the store, a couple of days ago we went to a baby consignment sale. I thought this unnecessary since we already had our own, never-been-used and still-in-the-original-package baby, but was pleasantly surprised to discover no infants with price tags. Instead there was lots and lots of stuff. Almost as much as the baby store, but more disturbing were the mommies. They were all-too familiar with all this baby stuff and spoke a language neither I, nor Momma Sarcasm, understood. We felt like strangers in a strange land. Like explorers on an alien world. How long had this society existed? What were the customs and practices? How does one adapt to their social norms? And why were there so many super-sized drinks from McDonald's in the strollers'* cupholders? Needless to say, we came home with more stuff we absolutely need. Our house is beginning to look like the hillbilly neighbors', ready to burst at the seams.
*Henceforth, strollers shall be referenced as prams. That is what the British call them. And I am worldly.