October 10, 2001

Baby shopping: Nearly crying out loud

By GARRET LEIVA
Herald editor
       Shopping is not my bag - paper or plastic.
      Next to do-it-yourself dentistry, there is nothing more excruciating than spending a Saturday afternoon shopping. Dante's Inferno appears heavenly compared to pushing a wobbly wheel cart through a labyrinth of frozen foods and tube socks. After two hours, you finally reach the seventh circle of hell aptly called the checkout lane. Unfortunately, like rock rolling Sisyphus, you'll be back.
      However, this weekend I ran into a true moral dilemma: baby shopping.
      The first test of fatherhood isn't changing diapers or dealing with 2 a.m. colicky cries, but feigning interest in the color of receiving blankets. My suggestions of 'puke green' and 'oops brown' were surprisingly left off the baby shower registry. Of course until this weekend, I thought a receiving blanket was a corner back double team on Randy Moss.
      Fatherhood brings the weight of added responsibility - and baggage. Car seats, strollers, playpens, and diaper bags to name a few. Indeed, it seems the smaller the human, the greater amount of paraphernalia. Undoubtedly, a fetus can't shop for these things being suspended in amniotic fluid and all. Unfortunately, I had no such excuse.
      So this Saturday, I immersed myself in Boppies, blankets and bottles. The undertow of choices nearly drowned this dumbstruck dad-to-be. Carseats that require MIT engineering degrees to operate, strollers with better suspension than my mountain bike, swings with computer chip microprocessors, the list is endless.
      However, I dutifully inspected five-point restraint harnesses and handle ergonomics. All the while a little voice in my head- doing its best Roberto Duran impression- whimpered "no mas, no mas."
      Now don't get me wrong, I'm serious about the welfare of my future son or daughter. However, after an hour of mulling over every minutia of baby stuff, humor got the best of me. Luckily, my wife knows I often walk the fine line between sarcasm and stupidity.
      "Car seat? Hey, bubble wrap and duct tape was good enough for me." Or "What's wrong with a spare tire and tow chain baby swing?"
      Halfway through our afternoon excursion I did notice something was missing - other men. Although there was one guy who gave me a "Soylent Green is people" look before he disappeared down the diaper aisle. Overall, however, I pretty much carried the token testosterone banner. I had no qualms about this until I found myself scanning in UPC codes for bra nursing pads.
      Now I know it sounds immature, but standing in a department store next to rows of breast pumps made me giggle. Just typing in the last sentence made me blush. Of course, I realize breastfeeding is perfectly natural and nurturing. However, that didn't stop me from thinking about the scene in "Mr. Mom" where Michael Keaton is in the checkout lane and the cashier asks for a price check on a certain feminine hygiene product over the store's P.A. system.
      I would equate the experience to holding your wife's purse while she is in the dressing room at Victoria's Secret and you only have boxer shorts on. Only a bit more Freudian.
      On Thanksgiving weekend, family and friends are throwing a baby shower for my wife. During those two hours, I'll be watching college football and consuming adult beverages with "the guys." If we happen to run out of munchies, I'll volunteer to go shopping. After all, you don't need an engineering degree to pick out pork rinds or feel awkward asking for something with the word breast from the deli guy.
      Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail gleiva@gtherald.com