On Saturday we had breakfast at La Bonbonniere, the first place we ever ate breakfast in New York City and still my favorite place to eat breakfast in New York City. I ate my three blueberry pancakes before Tim could take my picture, the pancakes I received five minutes after ordering them, as is the norm at La Bonbonniere. This if for no other reason is a great reason to eat breakfast here, especially when pregnant.
Then we took a walk on the High Line, officially considered a good idea. Because it was cold and windy, we didn’t once get stuck behind people walking too slowly or stopping without warning, and there were no strollers. Soon we will be the ones with the stroller and will rule the world.
Just because I am carrying a future Wonderful Addition to the World doesn’t mean I expect special treatment. I am, however, acutely aware of the people who are personally out to make life harder for me. I’m onto the following people:
- Every smoker within three blocks.
- The food cart vendor who secured his spot years ahead of time knowing I would walk by him every day and would one day be pregnant and be forced to smell meat cooking at 9:00 in the morning.
- The food cart on the same street who sells donuts, delicious, chocolate-frosted donuts with no nutritional value but taste the way vegetables will taste in heaven.
- Every driver whose car is an inch or more into the crosswalk.
- People who run on sunny days.
I knew I’d need to give up beer and coffee and hot dogs and pogo sticks, but I couldn’t anticipate that these vindictive individuals would be out to get me.
I’ve been craving root beer since the first month, started in part I’m sure to convince myself that I didn’t want (real) beer at happy hour/lunch/dinner/party/middle of the workday/breakfast, but now it’s bona fide.
Root beer is in its ultimate form when combined with vanilla ice cream then drank with a straw. Don’t waste my time with a spoon; if I wanted to eat ice cream with a spoon I would have put it in a bowl. This ice cream is meant to melt with the root beer and be imbibed ultimately via the straw.
As a faster (and I suppose healthier) option to fulfill this craving I’ve mixed some milk with the root beer and achieved similar (though by no means equivalent) results. Sounds gross, right? It’s not.
Bonus points if you can tell me why it’s especially awesome that the ice cream in this picture is Turkey Hill.
I spent all weekend clicking “add to my registry,” many of items which I’m sure I’ll subsequently delete. I registered for NO CLOTHES since shoppers-for-babies understandably can’t resist buying baby clothing. However, wouldn’t you know it, bibs, washcloths, towels, and sheets are all gender-specific too. Luckily I could find some gender neutral products, like diaper pails.
Tim will be deciding what stroller(s) we want. He doesn’t know this yet, but this is our decision. I think he also wants to do the research on camcorders too. Again, we will take suggestions.
We’ll also gladly take any hand-me-downs.
I’m doing my best not to judge my worth and ability as a parent based on the registry choices I am making, and I’ve so far received very good advice, mostly telling me not to judge my worth and ability as a parent based on my registry choices.
I’ve decided to go with Target and Babies “R” Us – I am a yuppie after all (or at least aspire to be). They both also offer in-store and online shopping for all of the wonderful friends and family who want to buy us baby gifts. However,
I HAVE SOME COMPLAINTS.
My biggest complaint: Target divides clothing and shoes into boys’ clothing and shoes and girls’ clothing and shoes, with no general “clothing” and “shoes” option. This is infuriating on so many levels. That a distinction exists at all between “boys’ clothes” and “girls’ clothes” is a shame on our society, but specifically it’s a great hindrance to those waiting to find out (or to reveal) the sex of their child. I’ve browsed briefly both categories of clothing and had to stop because it’s made me physically sick.
Babies “R” Us at least offers clothing categories of colors, sizes, and theme in addition to gender. The color yellow yields one result: a layette set that’s not assigned a gender. Hallelujah! Green? One option: “girls'” pajamas. Brown? Only washcloths. White? Three “girls'” options. I’m not even going to bother with pink and blue. Typing “neutral” into the search box yields the most fruitful results. That “neutral” is a category also makes me want to barf.
If you’d like to buy gifts for my child, feel free to buy “boy,” “girl,” or “neutral” clothing, toys, and accessories. I don’t care what genitalia my child has; he or she can play with cars or dolls or Legos. A son with a stethoscope toy will be as much a nurse as a daughter with a stethoscope toy will be a doctor. A daughter’s sports clothing will be the team’s colors, not pink. You get my point.
I am not handling this well.
The evidence suggests that I am pregnant with a growing child who will someday be born and need stuff. My sister is discussing baby shower dates. It’s Saturday morning and all I’m doing is eating cereal and watching a show about Hitler’s imagined supercity. I have no excuse to not start a registry except that I don’t feel like doing it.
A special sort of tiredness results from the tediousness of buying necessary products. It means researching, comparing, reviewing, and being bombarded with “suggestions” from whichever store I register with. However, I don’t want my laziness to affect my pending child’s pending well-being, so I am taking suggestions. I am making the decision, right now, to begin registering for retail products. After I finish my cereal.
What does my baby need? What must I have has a new mother? Please leave comments!
It’s week 23. Here is what I look like: