I have recently suffered through and survived a harrowing experience: my first attack of parental guilt. The ironic thing about this is while I am going through this my child is busy floating in-utero and practicing Zidane style head butts to my internal organs. So, what extreme force of nature pushed me far enough into a state of anxiety and guilt that I couldn’t sleep? The same potent combination that snares adolescents: peer pressure. What kind of peer pressure? The pressure to have the best nursery for my baby, of course.
My husband and I are a frugal couple both out of the necessity of living solely on an enlisted military member’s salary and because we enjoy the simple things in life. We’d take delivery pizza and a good movie over wine and the opera any day. Sure, we both enjoy splurging every now and then, but in general we’re content to live in the slow lane and leave the hoity-toity life to those who desire it.
Our son is due mid-November and while we realize that there are obviously some non-negotiable costs involved with raising a child we were happy in our belief that we could do this in the same style that we live . After all, like the nursery rhyme says… “What are little boys made of? Snakes and snails and puppy dog tails…” That didn’t seem like it should require massive amounts of money or debt to get those things together. Our plan went like this: we’d buy the crib and car seat new because of safety reasons, the rest of the furniture could be second-hand, clothes and toys we’d leave for the baby showers and then supplement as necessary. We’ve decided to breastfeed and I conveniently have the necessary equipment for that. Diapers are expensive, but we draw the line at cloth diapers so we’ll just tack those onto the grocery list. We were set.
Enter massive influx of pregnancy hormones. Somehow I made it through the first trimester firmly in control of my own emotions and I think that for that reason the second trimester caught me off-guard and found myself (and my poor bystander husband) bombarded by mood swings with no equal. Suddenly what is good enough for me and my husband isn’t good enough for the baby.
I’m still trying to combat these nerves with my common sense that is scattered in with all my pregnancy hormones. On a good day I could still believe that having a baby does not have to be a materialistic marathon, but unfortunately, I wasn’t having a good day when all the baby catalogs began arriving.
I don’t know if you’ve ever looked at these magazines, or looked at them through the hormone-glazed eyes of a pregnant woman, but these are like pornography to the pregnant woman. Page after glossy page of coordinated nursery items called out to me. All I needed to give my baby that peaceful haven was a solid wood crib, a matching changing table, and dresser. Of course, don’t forget the gliding rocking chair and ottoman, plus the chaise lounger for when you need to sleep in the nursery with the baby. Then there’s the matching rug, wall hanging, picture frames, lampshades, laundry hamper, diaper stacker and closet organizer all sold separately, but totally necessary.
Sure it would cost thousands and thousands of dollars plus shipping and handling, but you just have to think of it as an investment. After all, modern nursery furniture is very similar to transformer toys. The crib is a toddler bed, a daybed, and then the child’s marriage bed. The changing table starts out for diaper changes, but converts into toy shelves and then an armoire. The dresser, well, it’s just a dresser, but it matches everything else. The furniture even has stylish baby names for each set. You can have the Madison, James, Caitlyn, Oliver, or Paige line. This isn’t just nursery furniture this is a legacy.
Now that I’ve lusted through page after page of furniture it’s time to pick out the theme of the nursery. The array of coordinated lines of bedding is no less addictive or intoxicating than the furniture choices. There’s the retro nursery, the storybook nursery, the princess nursery, the sports themed nursery, the nautical nursery, the urban nursery. These sets will only set you back several hundred dollars for four pieces: a quilt, a bumper, a fitted sheet, and a crib skirt. Of course, no self-respecting parent would let their child have such a bare bones nursery. If I love my child I’ll also get the valance, the curtains, the basket liners for the closet organizer I previously picked out, and of course the lampshade. I’ll also need spare sheets that match so I’ll buy some of those and then check out the website for additional items.
And then at the end of the catalog after I’ve frantically been searching to see if they accept organ donations to pay for everything I find that, no, they aren’t yet taking spare organs, they will however offer me their own line of credit. So not only can I leave my child the legacy of his nursery furniture when I’m no longer with him I can also leave him the bill and the astronomical interest rate.
This is the point where I’d start to cry because sitting on my couch, which we acquired third-hand and free from a friend, I know that there is no way my son will have the twelve piece solid cherry Oliver convertible furniture. I’m not going to call the toll-free number and have an interior designer stop by to consult on any nursery renovation, since we’re renting and can’t even paint the walls. He’s not going to have a six hundred dollar crib set when you’re not even supposed to cover the baby with a quilt and he’s just going to spit up on the designer sheets. And I know, that none of it is important, but they make it seem so necessary that I forget myself for a minute and I just cry because I want the best for my baby.
Now my husband comes home wearing his camouflage uniform and finds me crying on the couch my tear drops wrinkling the glossy pages. And instead of being irritated with his temporarily materialistic wife, he kisses me and reminds me of the adorable blanket that we bought from Target that’s so soft, and how we picked out nursery furniture from Walmart that both matches and looks nice for under three hundred dollars. And this is what dries my tears. It’s not the baby items wherever they come from, it’s not the bedding set, it’s not even the words my husband says. It’s just the gentle reminder that he loves me, I love him, and we’ll both love our son, which is a far better legacy than anything else we could leave for him.
