Over the weekend, I decided that I needed to buy a baby gift for my coworker’s new baby (who was born over the weekend), so I visited the Gymboree across the street. My last visit to Gymbo was over a year ago so I think it makes me a recovered former addict. Hat, long sleeved onesie, socks, blanket. All in a super cute dogs-driving-trucks pattern. I still love that place.
There are two directions that I could take this…either the “I’m past the baby rabies stage” direction (which is a bold faced lie) or the “Fucking coworker, married not even a year and his face is a pizza how come he gets to procreate??” (which is disturbingly impolite and self involved) but the truth is that we’re, what, three years past the intense baby chase years and I really lack the energy to hold onto all of that anger on a full time basis. It hits me from time to time, though such as when I realized that having a (theoretical) baby tomorrow means that Gene would be parenting a minor for 36 straight years.
(Surely not even Jim Bob Duggar can say that?)