Page 122 of Pregnant in Plaid
"How many is a few?"
"Six to eight different bottles should cover your bases."
Gage starts loading bottles into the cart. Alldifferent types. All different brands. We now have approximately twenty bottles.
"That's more than eight," I point out.
"Better safe than sorry," he mutters.
Next: diapers. Newborn size, size one, size two, different brands, some with wetness indicators, some with extra leak protection. We buy twelve boxes because, as Yvonne explains, babies go through ten to twelve diapers per day.
Per day.
Brooklyn's going to cost more in diapers than I spend on food.
Then: the Boppy. Which turns out to be a nursing pillow shaped like a horseshoe. There are multiple styles. We get three because why not? At this point I've lost all sense of reason.
Onesies versus bodysuits versus sleepers—Yvonne explains the differences, but it all sounds like the same thing with different buttons. We buy twenty of each, in multiple sizes, because Brooklyn's apparently going to grow at an alarming rate.
Wipe warmer: purchased. Diaper pail that claims to seal in smells: purchased. Changing pad, changing pad covers, burp cloths, swaddles, pacifiers in three different sizes, bottles of gripe water I don't understand, nail clippers that terrify me, and a thermometer that takes the baby's temperature through her forehead.
The future is weird.
"What about furniture?" Yvonne asks.
"We need a crib and changing table," I say. “I was going to build one myself, but the baby came earlier than expected.”
"Excellent. Follow me."
The furniture section is overwhelming. Cribs that convert into toddler beds. Cribs with storage underneath. Cribs in every color imaginable. Price tags that make my credit card weep.
"This one," Gage says, pointing to a solid wood crib that costs roughly what I paid for my truck.
"That's expensive."
"It's sturdy. And it'll last through multiple kids."
"We're not having multiple kids. We're having one kid and barely surviving that."
"We need quality," he says, signaling to Yvonne that we want it.
We add a changing table, a dresser, a rocking chair that costs more than my monthly cabin mortgage, and a mobile that plays classical music because apparently babies need cultural enrichment.
By the time we're done, both carts are overflowing.
"Your total is five thousand, three hundred and forty-seven dollars," the cashier announces cheerfully.
Gage and I just stare at her.
"For baby supplies," I say numbly.
"Yes sir. And this is actually quite reasonable for a first-time parent shopping trip."
My credit card smokes as she runs it through the machine.
"Patrice is going to kill me," I say again.
"She's going to kill both of us," Gage corrects.
