Before my daughter was born, I thought that a child in my household would have an immediate and severe impact on my cost of living. What with all the extra laundry, clothing, furniture, baby entertainment devices, not to mention the vast array of products pertaining to the baby’s butt, I figured our bills go on a sharp incline. But it turns out we now rarely leave the house, which means we barely spend any money at all.
So we set out to change that today, and went on a big shopping spree. It was the first time we’ve gone shopping together with the baby. Our first stop was a baby paraphernalia store called Baby Grand, where we went to buy a special baby sling called a New Native Carrier. It’s apparently a type of sling made famous by Cindy Crawford, though I’m not sure I look as sexy in it as she does.
While we were trying it on, I joked with the sales girl by asking her if they had any New Native Carriers with little ducks on them. She reacted like it was a serious question, explaining that they didn’t, so I said, “I’m sorry. I just think it’s funny how everything surrounding babies has little pictures of cute things on it, as though the cuteness of our babies isn’t enough, we have to surround those cute babies with little pictures of other cute things.” The sales girl looked at me blankly and said, “We try to steer clear of that kind of thing here at Baby Grand.”
It occurred to me while we were there that Nancy and I should try to market our ideas for funny baby t-shirts, with printed messages that say things like, “Iron Maiden,” or “Feminazi” (we haven’t yet come up with anything funny for a boy). Today, I was thinking it’d be funny to have t-shirts that express mild parental enthusiasm (since that enthusiasm is usually so shrill): things like “Pretty good baby,” or “This baby’s okay,” or “Average Baby.”
From Baby Grand, we went to Target. While we were in the stationary section, two little old ladies, one of whom was in a wheelchair, stopped Nancy and asked, “Can we get a look?” Nancy said sure, and held Isadora up for them to see.
In a weird way, it seemed as though their age gave them the privilege to ask for that viewing, as though, being old, they were thirstier for youth than a middle-aged person would be, and so we were obligated to give them a sip.
The woman at the check-out register also doled out the baby adulation, but only after she’d scolded us for not getting a Target Visa.
As we walked to our car, two teenaged girls were standing in the parking spot next to ours, smoking cigarettes, with a baby in the backseat of their car. One of the girls was saying, “I just don’t even like him. He’s all like, ‘I’m all that.’ And I’m just like, ‘whatever.’” As we clipped Isadora into her car seat, they stubbed out their cigarettes, grabbed their baby, and headed into Target.
Pulling out of the parking lot, Nancy said, “I judge them.”
I love the way she says that. It somehow expresses both her judgment and her sense of self-consciousness about being judgmental at the same time.
That’s the way I felt too. There was something jarring about seeing someone smoke around their baby that I don’t think would have bothered me in the same way a year ago. At the same time, hearing their conversation made them seem so young and vulnerable. If I had to take care of a baby, go to high school, and decide whether I liked a guy who thinks he’s all that, I think I’d be smoking too.