Giving It Away

I finally decided to give away all Ari's baby and toddler stuff. I mean--I'm a 41-year-old lesbian. Oh, and just for kicks I'm on the pill! (Actually, not for kicks, but because I do not particularly enjoy my menstrual cycle.) Whatevs. Let's face it. I'm not gonna get knocked up again without some serious planning all up in this place.

I have a few friends with babies and toddlers, so I gave them what I could. Even I, who was well prepared for a lot of stuff, was shocked by the number of car loads of crap I gave away. I still haven't given away the crib or the stroller or the high chair, either.

Most of this crap verged on useless when we were trying to use it. Ari wouldn't stay in his high chair, stroller, or crib. Okay, he stayed in the crib, but that's because I water-boarded him. (Kidding!) Now, of course, he shrieks at the top of his lungs when he sees me trying to give this stuff away. As you may have guessed, these are not shrieks of encouragement. He really gets into it, too -- cusses up a storm.

Ari: Mommy, where are you taking my tummy time pad?

Self (innocently): Oh, I was going to give it to Graeme. You know--he doesn't have one, and you don't need tummy time anymore.

Ari: No, mommy. (urgently) Mommy, no.

Self: Yes, Ari.

Ari (glaring): Mommy. You can't give that away. It's mine.

Self: Wanna bet, buddy?

Ari: Mommy! You are a bad mommy!

Self (sarcastically): Oh, boo-hoo-hoo!

Ari: You. . .chicken burger head! (takes spoon out of silverware drawer and hurls it violently to the ground)

Self (softening): Ari, sweetheart, you hated tummy time! What is the issue here?

Ari: The isssss-you is you're a banana moldy piece of pizza! (Stomps feet, hurls self onto couch in tears)

Self: K, bunny, you have yourself a nice cry, then. I'm going to Graeme's house. Graeme, (raises eyebrow) who is a baby. (meaningfully) Did I mention this is Graeme, The Baby?

Ari (who loves babies, clearly torn): Oh! (pause) Mommy! (punches couch pillow for emphasis while wiping tears away) You're a big, ginormous jelly sandwich!!

Which, translated into adult English means, "Look, bitch, don't fuck with me."

Here is Ari, enjoying his tummy time pad, just in case you don't believe me when I tell you he hated the blasted thing.

Does he look happy to you? Answer: no.

As I was stuffing things into bags, I noticed that we had 39 (39!) tubes of diaper cream. The friend I gave those bags to texted "Holy diaper cream, Batman!" I am not actually Batman, unfortch. But I do think B (my beautiful wife, not Batman) and I were stricken by a very peculiar form of mental illness in which the victim believes he/she can cure him/herself by purchasing more diaper cream. It didn't work, obvs, but I am glad, at least, that we didn't run out of diaper cream at 3:00 am when Ari was a baby because the complexity of such a situation might have done us in.

Ari is not, by any means, a weak-willed child. I suppose this will do him some good at some point in life, but for now it just makes me work. I've never worked so hard in my life. I have Good Baby Envy. I see, on occasion, a baby or toddler in a public place acting calmly, sitting down, even, and I just about go ballistic. This isn't just a short-lived thing. These babies are in the mall or a restaurant sitting calmly for a whole hour sometimes. And I just have to say: what the fuck?! Are they lobotomized? I suppose, when Ari is 37, he may be capable of such Zen-like behavior. Until then: sod off, parents of good babies. You guys suck.

The end.