Baby, I've got you covered

This particular “essential” gear recommendation may be a tad specific to my own experience. The Rock ‘n Play and a baby carrier have become universal requirements for proper bourgeois parenting—run a Facebook poll of your parent friends and the endorsements will come rolling in. Minimalist as you may plan to be while you begin your baby registry journey in the first trimester, you will still find yourself in seven months, awake at 2am on your third night home from the hospital, cluster-feeding your infant in one arm while signing up for Amazon Prime on your phone with the other so you can order the RNP to be delivered in the next five hours.

But a Carseat Canopy, you ask? After all, you registered for several of those Aden & Anais muslin swaddlers, and your friends all assure you they are quite versatile, even if they do cost as much as your father’s entire four years of college. Why do you need yet another blanket, just because it has a heavy interior lining and Velcro straps?

One of the many things no one tells you about newborns is that they are easily overstimulated. I don’t mean that they get a little antsy at Chuck E. Cheese, I mean that turning on an overhead light can send their raw-pancake-batter nervous system into a manic frenzy. Some newborns are more susceptible than others—with zero data and only a vague recollection of reading this on BabyCenter, I think babies born on the early side of 40 weeks tend to have stimuli receptors that are more undercooked than their late-term counterparts. Maybe that’s just my excuse for why my son, born two weeks early, was a screaming ball of exposed nerve for most of his fourth trimester. He shrank from sunlight like a wrinkly-skinned mole, and if we had the audacity to have a ceiling fan going when the phone rang, he reacted like he was having dental surgery without anesthesia. My pre-baby visions of taking him on long walks in the stroller, admiring the fall foliage and opining on the meaning of life, were dashed by the reality of having an infant whose senses were frequently overloaded by the stripes on his crib sheet.

 Tiny infant C, snuggled deep in the Misty Mountains and dreaming of the Precious

 Tiny infant C, snuggled deep in the Misty Mountains and dreaming of the Precious

The Carseat Canopy is a thick blanket that attaches to the handle of an infant carrier and creates a sensory deprivation chamber of darkness and calm. It’s the newborn equivalent of scented candles, a warm bubble bath, and Enya on surround sound. Once I discovered the utility of the Carseat Canopy, I was finally able to take little Gollum out of the house and into the world. Enveloped in the womb-like solace of his car seat, he would stop screaming and fall asleep a few minutes into a car ride, as long as I played David Sedaris podcasts on the stereo and never stopped at red lights. I could even take him for walks in the stroller, secure in knowing that no UV rays would pierce his paper-thin eyelids and trigger his Saw-like baby nightmares.

Thanks to the Carseat Canopy, by 12 weeks I had my baby on a schedule the Baby Whisperer would envy. A one-hour nap in the morning, driving around a city route that elegantly avoided all speed bumps, stop signs, and traffic lights; an afternoon nap in my arms as I made impressive progress on Candy Crush; and an early evening nap while I walked a three-mile loop around my neighborhood, a roadie in my hand and triumph in my heart.

Written by: Kathleen

Rock 'n Play Me All Night Long

First off, you should know that every single piece of baby gear you buy will come with multiple warnings in a variety of languages that inform you that any alteration or misuse of this product will undoubtedly kill your baby. At first these warnings are terrifying, but worry not—eventually you will grow numb to neon yellow tags that threaten the spontaneous combustion of your offspring, and you will no longer tremble at the sight of the all-caps labels on your stroller barking at you like an irritable French waiter, “Mise en Garde! Mise en Garde you stupid American filth!” Indeed, soon enough you will be recklessly dressing your toddler in baggy pajamas and putting your lukewarm coffee in the cup-holder of your BOB accessory bar, but in the early weeks you will be bullied into compliance. Thus when I tell you right now that letting your newborn spend the night in the Fisher Price Rock ‘n Play will save you from openly empathizing with terror suspects in Guantanamo, you will not listen. Babies must sleep on their backs on a hard, flat surface, you will think with the smugness of someone who has never put kitty litter in the coffee maker. That’s what both the Mayo Clinic and all of the other first-time moms on the What to Expect message board say, and by God that is how your baby will sleep, no exceptions.

Except that newborn babies won’t sleep flat on their backs on a hard surface because newborn babies are not preternaturally suited for a post-apocalyptic nomadic civilization or a third-world prison. Oh sure, maybe in the hospital your little bug slept in that plastic fish tank like a champ, but only because he was knocked out from the Fentanyl drip you got when you still thought you could handle a natural childbirth. Once home, your baby will only sleep in one of two places: your arms, or the Rock ‘n Play (aka the “RNP”, as those twats on the message board will refer to it after they enjoy three straight nights of cluster feeding).

The RNP is firm enough to mimic a prison cot, and it gives you no choice but to put your baby on his back, however, unlike on that slab of concrete they call a crib mattress, your baby will actually sleep in it. The curved basket imitates your own warm embrace, and it rests your baby at a slight elevation, which helps with colic and reflux and all of the other made-up reasons newborns scream non-stop for 4-8 hours a day. Plus his spastic muscle control will cause the RNP to rock back and forth, lulling him into that mythical “deep” sleep that lasts until the moment you put the shampoo in your hair.

Go ahead and register for the RNP, telling yourself you will only use it to lay your baby in while you read to him from the New York Times or sing him Italian operas. It will be there waiting for you after you drag the Arm’s Reach co-sleeper out to your front lawn and light it on fire, and it won’t even say “I told you so.” It will just cuddle your baby close, swaying slightly as if jostled by a warm summer breeze, while you weep quietly into your cold cup of litter-coffee and wonder if Guantanamo might not be so bad this time of year.

Written by: Kathleen

Our first morning at home, marveling at the power of the RNP and wondering why my coffee tastes like cat pee.

Our first morning at home, marveling at the power of the RNP and wondering why my coffee tastes like cat pee.