Baby registries, baby showers, and the blood of a virgin

Okay so listen, now that I got a blog post about My Excessive Feelings™ out of the way, let's get back to our regularly scheduled programming. 

Baby registries. 

Oh lord, the time has come. 

Look, I like things. I love buying new things and having new things and dreaming up the perfect nursery. But that shit is overwhelming. Because it's not just a nursery. It's every possible thing and gadget imaginable required to keep a baby comfortable, fed, clothed, and alive. 

Get this, not that. But not that brand. Definitely this model, but don't get that attachment. Register at Buy Buy Baby, not Target. No, do Target, not Babies "R" Us. Have you tried Babylist? Amazon! Definitely Amazon. You want this breast pump, not that, but don't register for diapers. Don't get too many bottles, but definitely get a wipes warmer. Don't get a wipes warmer. Put the baby in your room, don't put the baby in your room. Put the baby in your bed. Zippers, not buttons. This swaddle, not that. Don't swaddle. That stroller, but this color. Bounce, don't rock. Rock, don't bounce. Your kid will hate both. Thermometer in the butt, thermometer in the ear, thermometer on the forehead. But not that kind. Thirty-dollar burp rags, just kidding, get the cheap Gerber diaper cloths instead. He'll be too small for that, he won't wear that, he won't like that. Read this book or that book, but not Google. Definitely don't read that book, but try this method. Don't buy that, steal it from the hospital. Todd's never heard of a Diaper Genie. But don't get a Diaper Genie, get an Arm & Hammer Diaper Pail. 


You guys. None of this is wrong. None of this is bad. But it is so much. I am actively seeking the advice, so it's my own self-created hell. It's helped equally as much as it's hurt my brain. I am one to plan. I research. I ask questions. I deeply, deeply investigate. I want to do everything right, which is equal parts noble, naive, and exhausting. 

I exhaust myself. If you know me, this does not surprise you. I probably exhaust you. (Hi Todd!)

That said, our registries are... complete. Well, they're adequate. I'm sure we'll tweak them and add to them, but to date, it has been the most overwhelming process. I had spreadsheets. Not mine, mind you, but other peoples' spreadsheets from when they were recently planning these things. ("But only people with babies because if their kids are older, things have changed too much and it's not helpful...")

I basically pinned these spreadsheets to the wall, downed a bottle of Prozac, and started connecting dots with yarn while pulling out my hair and drinking vodka. 

Just kidding about some of that. I watched a lot of Homeland years ago.

Which brings us to baby showers. BABY SHOWERS. Like, the party, not bathing my baby, unfortunately. I don't like baby showers. NO ONE LIKES BABY SHOWERS, INTERNET. They're so uncomfortable and twee, and I hate party games and awkward attention. 

But I DO like my friends and family.

Fortunately, my best friend graciously offered to plan one for me. I've known her since I was 20, she's seen things, and she knows me. She's also childless. She is exactly who I want to plan my baby shower. EXACTLY. 

My baby shower will be a safe space. It will all be okay. We'll be okay, you guys. 

But can't we just have an internet baby shower where we all just sit on Facebook and share funny memes and buy gifts? I am all about this. 

And so here we are, week twenty-three. My belly has significantly sprouted, and I appreciate that he waited until after the wedding to hit a growth spurt. He's still moving a ton, though I... sadly... am not. Not for lack of ability, but mostly lack of time and motivation. I hereby vow to get my shit together and exercise. 

My next doctor visit is on the horizon, which means so is my gestational diabetes test, therefore I should probably also stop eating sugar for every meal. That is dumb. Everything is dumb. Give me cupcakes. 

As predicted, my shiny new wedding ring is beginning to find itself ever-so-snug on these shape-shifting fingers. Some days, it fits perfectly. Other days, I consider amputation. 

That seems like a good metaphor for life. 

We've been in our house for about three-and-a-half months now, and we're finally starting to do things. Bedroom organization, garden-planting, cabinet organization, painting, wall decor, paying the mortgage...

Just kidding, we've been doing that. I think. 

All of this nesting just in time to prepare for a newborn hurricane. My tidy, orderly, and organized soul is already in pain.

In other painful news, I've also been working on legally changing my last name. Remember five minutes ago when I was like, "Creating a baby registry is the most overwhelming thing of all time"?

I lied. 

Changing your last name is the equivalent of updating the most secure online password. It requires two capital letters, one symbol, but not the exclamation point, nine digits, one rhyme, the blood of a virgin (not mine), and my unborn child, which, technically, I could provide. 


Give me my name and give me cupcakes. Or popsicles. That's fine, too. Thank you and good day.