Baby on a Budget

You live, you learn, you dumpster dive.

It was such a cliché moment. Kneeling over a complicated set of instructions (in English, French, German and Japanese, no less!), I’m in an empty room next to nuts, bolts, washers, screws and a very lame “toolbox.” It contains an unsharpened pencil, purple pipe cleaner, a Pez dispenser, and a screwdriver with a picture of a unicorn on it. I’m ready! And I’m attempting to build a crib. For the third time. For another kid. For yet another daughter. I’m running out of rooms, sanity and places I can hide when everyone is being a little too grumpy.

All of this makes me remember the nesting phase before our first child. The baby books were strewn around the house. Yes, I would like to know the fruit or vegetable that the fetus compares to in size every day. No, I didn’t know that we should really only eat wild caught sustainable salmon and that oregano oil could trigger early contractions. I don’t want to say the books were useless, but they were more helpful as pillows when you pass out in the middle of the night during a feeding.

And then it was all the stuff. It’s like preparing an underground bunker for the apocalypse. Blankets and bottles, bassinets and bathtubs, breast pumps and bouncers. And everything had to be the best, or else our kid was never getting in to Harvard or Yale. We would search reviews and ratings, ensure everything was certified by some global governing body of baby experts in Stockholm. It was exhausting. And it was f^&%ing expensive.

We became best friends with the delivery drivers from Amazon, UPS and FedEx. Boxes of all shapes and sizes filled our house, as I pored through user manuals that promised extreme nightmares if I made any mistake at all. Thank you for letting me know that every single item for my child could result in a loss of limbs or death (IN ITALICIZED BOLD ALL CAPS!) As if there wasn’t enough pressure of becoming a new parent during the age of social media, climate change and Crocs.

But I suppose it gets easier. The second child is a sequel with a new plot, but the characters and setting are familiar. You’re not cocky per se, but you’ve nailed a few parenting hacks, know your way around a diaper and can navigate a solid burping session. I assume the third is gravy—just join the club! Fool-hearted thinking, I’m sure, but there is something to be said for experience. I feel like one year with kids is equal to five without, kind of like dog math.

And if you still have no idea what you’re doing, at least you’ve realized that 90% of the baby “essentials” are anything but. Bottle heater, wipe warmer, baby food processor. Um, how about a microwave, cold wipes and good ol’ Gerber mashed sweet potatoes. The costly baby gear? All used, nothing new and we’re open to barter on Craigslist. I found an old shopping cart behind the local 7-Eleven, and I can easily fashion it into our new stroller. You live and you learn. If we survived without formula dispensers for more than two thousand years, it probably isn’t a requirement for a well-adjusted child.

We also won’t talk about this one’s clothes. Sorry, kid, you’ll be lucky to find a new pair of underwater. See that stain? Your sister put a bowl of spaghetti on her head when she was two. That rip? Your other sister took a header tripping over the dog. Don’t worry about matching pajamas. Mix and match is vogue right now. And we’ll just put duct tape over the name on the backpack and write in yours. Welcome to the family!

Yeah, Harvard or Yale might not be in the cards for girl number three. We’re thinking professional athlete or child prodigy musician for this one. Let’s see the baby books teach you how to do that!