I've been to Hell and back

You know, I’m not real sure exactly what Hell would be like. I obviously hope to never find out. But the image of a burning fire and brimstone Hell seems kind of silly to me, because I think you probably would eventually just acclimatize to the heat and it can’t really be so hot that it kills you, because you are already dead. Then, if there is a lake of fire there has to be a beach at the lake, right? Sounds like a party to me! And if the people who you traditionally think of as going to Hell actually go to Hell, then they are most likely looking for a party anyway, right? So I have always thought of Hell as a more personalized place. A place specially tailored for each of as an individual. Recently I had a taste of my own personal Hell. It is a little place called…Babies- R-Us! I don’t know if anyone has been here, but it is a place where women wander around aimlessly led by lists of stuff that the registry book has convinced terrified mothers-to-be they can’t live without, but that no one actually needs. Mothers have had children for thousands of years without having a timer that “syncs to the baby’s natural cycle” and notifies you when it is time to feed them. Now admittedly, I am not a father quite yet but I always thought the screaming baby would be a pretty good indicator of its need for attention.

Men have it worse than the women. At least the women have some kind of goal associated with their visit. The guys that wander around have this glazed-over look and just consistently nod their heads and mutter under their breath over and over again, “Yes, dear. What ever you think is best, dear.” What is really going on in their head involves something more along the lines of: “A wipe warmer? What on earth do we need a wipe warmer for? I had my butt wiped with cold wipes and look how good I turned out. Millions of years…cold wipes…let the baby choose… dirty diaper or cold wipes… can’t we just microwave them…? (Men actually mumble in their thoughts too).” But all that comes out is, “Yes, dear. What ever you think is best, dear.”

You see, the strategy here is two fold. First, by agreeing with everything, we hope that we can get out of the store faster. Two, we are concentrating on running a real-time cost-benefit analysis. We are comparing the monetary cost of whatever far flung object our baby momma is insisting that our offspring will perish without, to the emotional, opportunity, and occasionally, physical cost of an angry wife. It usually goes something like this:

Wife: Look at this; I think we need one of these.

Man: $42.99 for a wedge of foam to hold the baby’s head at a perfect angle while preventing a flat spot on its soft skull. Hmmm, sounds important.

(Meanwhile, in his head): $42.99, are you serious? Why don’t we just burn it? At least then we could warm our hands before it is completely wasted. But if I say no, she will be mad at me for the rest of the day and think I don’t care about the baby.)

Man: Yes, dear. What ever you think is best, dear.

Pretty much no monetary amount is worth saving if it causes you to go toe-to-toe (belly) with a hormonally driven, emotionally unstable pregnant woman. Especially when surrounded by a store full of other hormonally driven, emotionally unstable pregnant women, you’re in their world, now. That’s like attacking Al-Qaida in their mountain retreats. You don’t win those, and very rarely do you walk away alive. So instead, you slip into a semi comatose state and silently monitor the dropping balance of your checking account. It hurts, I know. And there is no epidural for that kind of pain.

In my case, there is a third reason to agree with everything. There is a REI next door and if I behave, then I get to go in there for a minute.

Part of what causes me to suffer so much while there is the stupidity of the some of the products. Gallons of “Nursery Purified Water.” How on earth can you be a good parent and feed your new baby normal purified water when you can pay $4 a gallon for “Baby Water?” Then there is the big sign hanging over the gift section called “Birth and Up.” Is there another option? Birth and before? What, are we giving prenatal gifts now? Really? Not to mention the baby blanket that says, “Boys Rock!” I think I am going to spend the first 20 years of my daughter’s life trying to prevent her from even knowing that boys exist, let alone rock.

I guess that Babies-R-Us can’t actually be my Hell because I did chuckle at a couple of things while there. The first was the 17 year old boy who proudly wore his purple employee’s shirt as he helped the customers find things they didn’t need. What on earth would inspire a teenage boy to work at Babies -R-Us? Did he lose a bet? Is he a little sweet? I asked my wife and she suggested maybe it was to pick up chicks. Like taking Home Ed in high school. If that is the case, well done buddy, well done.

The other thing that made me laugh was the, “Go, Diego Go!” potty training toilet seat. I looked around for other seats that were personalized toilet seat like, “Go, Tommy Go!” or, “Go, Sally Go!” ‘Cause a little encouragement can go a long way! It was even funnier when I found out that Go Diego Go is the name of a TV show and not just a vigorous encouragement for a Spanish boy to use the potty.

All things considered, I think my personal Hell will most likely be a combination of Babies-R-Us and window shopping, with a smattering of “What not to Wear” and a full season of the WNBA thrown in for extra suffering.