The Perils of Buying Baby Stuff


The shopping is getting serious.


I never thought there would be a type of shopping I failed to enjoy on any level.  And then I came across Baby Shopping.

To be honest, the pram and pushchair aspect of it is quite enjoyable (as long as you don’t look too closely at the prices) and I have spent many happy minutes posing in front of the mirror whilst accessorising with a Bugaboo (cue Destiny’s Child circa 1999 appear, tossing a now-obsolete item once known as a “pager” out of the window) and wondering how I might look as a mother (most mothers with pushchairs look at best what can only be described as “harassed,” but I will obviously be different).  However, the car seat aspect is awful.  First of all, I feel personally bullied by the NHS into buying one, as apparently I will not be allowed to leave hospital without it, and will presumably have to stay there forever like Tom Hanks in The Terminal, but in a hospital so therefore worse as no duty free and full of sick people in unattractive backless gowns hanging around outside with their drips smoking fags (truly the sight that sums up all the worst things about hospitals).  Also secondly, they are extremely heavy.  Now I can sort of understand why, as no one wants their baby flying around the car in the event of an accident, which I imagine is what might happen to something very light, but is quite disconcerting when you pick one up expecting it to be roughly the weight of a baby.

Then, if the car seat dilemma (they don’t all fit your pram, they don’t all fit your-or in my case, my brother’s-car.  Unless they happen to be the most expensive one in the shop, that is) isn’t enough, most baby shops seem to be crammed full of pink plastic tat (hello, Babies R Us) that you will never, ever use and which will end up living on your balcony for four hundred years as you slowly morph into one of those people who still keeps a ten year old pushchair and a rancid potty on the balcony.  Also known as a parent.  Not a look I was going for as I sit serenely on my sun lounger in a wide-brimmed hat, cradling the baby in my arms and rocking him to sleep as I sip a cold glass of pinot grigio.

Because that’s so going to be my life.  Right?

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