Super Trouper

We went to Ikea on Saturday, which seems counterintuitive to a family on a new budget, but apparently you are allowed to spend within your allotted budget line items, so there we were, driving to Stoughton for some Swedish inspiration and fabulous family-friendly parking. Did you know about this family parking at Ikea? It’s right up front! And you don’t have to be elderly, infirm or — gasp! — pregnant.

Look, I don’t mean to belittle the pregnant among us, but stork parking at Babies R Us is absolute bullshit designed to do nothing but make the pregnant ladies feel special, and I’m sorry, but I felt plenty special without toodling in and getting a front-row parking spot while some poor lady with a swollen vagina and a freaky-looking newborn tries desperately to maneuver her car seat out of its base. I can’t imagine anyone who’s ever had a child arguing that it’s more difficult to hoist a baby into a store while they are inside your body than outside in the world, where they either require 1,456,780 additional items clumsily shoved into a diaper bag, plus a car seat or baby carrier and/or are of the age where they’re resisting the stroller and threatening to launch themselves directly into traffic. I’m thinking at the very least it should be renamed “THIRD TRIMESTER PARKING ONLY,” or better yet, “ANYTIME PARKING FOR PREGNANT LADIES WITH OTHER CHILDREN.”

This reminds me of a comments section I read once — an adoption blog, I am assuming — wherein several commenters who were adopting announced that they, too, took advantage of the stork parking, and while I fully believe that adoptive parenting is equal to biological parenting, I cannot say that one who is not physically experiencing the anticipation of becoming a mother is quite at a level where they require up-front parking, for the love of all that is holy. It just goes to show you that stork parking is a terrible, no-good marginalizing idea that leaves plenty of people confused and strangely entitled, and of course, our Babies R Us has ELEVENTY MILLION of these godforsaken spots, and I am ALWAYS stuck parking in the back, near the carriage drops, which are always full of carriages that are (IRONY ALERT) broken and hazardous to children, but that’s a story for another day.

Anyway, back to Ikea, where we did what everyone does when they go to Ikea for the first time in a long time, which is tour the entire showroom, ooh-ing and ahh-ing over inexpensive furniture that they do not currently need and fantasizing about buying the entire room that costs only $899! For the whole room! And then, after hours of pointless shopping, finally hitting up the ONE section where they do need things, only to find they are too tired to deal and/or really only wanted the shit in the marketplace anyway. Well, that’s our Ikea story, at least, except for that time we got in a rip-roaring argument over coffee tables that lasted over an hour and kicked off a SIX-YEAR coffee table standoff, which didn’t actually end until we settled on a glass-topped children’s deathtrap at Haverty’s in 2007.

It goes without saying that we still have this coffee table.

(Btw, Holly talks about her recent experiences with Ikea here, and the best part is that all the commenters start sharing their Ikea-based spousal disagreements, and see? Ikea brings people together.)

So we toured the whole thing, ate some Swedish meatballs, walked out with an easel that didn’t come from a dumpster (which will show up today — well, Monday — on Style Lush), intended to get a table and chairs for Sam, but couldn’t find the actual items in the stupid self-service flatpack area, got frustrated, almost lost Sam in a pile of stuffed bunnies and vowed never to go to Ikea again.

The rest of the weekend was relatively uneventful, with the exception of a non-terrifying Sunny puking episode, wherein she ate a bone too fast, swallowed it, and proceeded to empty the contents of her stomach all over our area rug, couch and other surfaces. I, having just gotten over a sinus infection/cold/whatever, starting gagging and subsequently coughing, which resulted in me peeing directly through my pants in a way that I hadn’t done since I was pregnant. Like, I had to CHANGE THEM. God, why does no one TELL you these things?

I remember mentioning this to my OB at my six-week check-up, that things felt strangely … loose, down there, and she actually acted as though it was all temporary, and would return to normal, when what she should have said was, “Yes, why didn’t you know this? You will pee yourself until the end of time. Things are irrevocably broken down there. I’m sorry. Enjoy your baby!”

And finally, I realize that many people think Sam looks like me, but I’m sorry to say, she really doesn’t. Behold, a photo of my husband just past the toddler years — he’s the one in the middle — and if that isn’t my daughter, then my bladder has been restored to full, pre-pregnancy function.

(Click to embiggen.)

At least no one can say it’s the milkman’s baby.

Happy Monday to you!

*ABBA Viva la Sweden! And the Lyekeviksn collection! Or whatever.

20 comments September 26th, 2010