I am writing to you from the Baby Crap War Zone also known as my house. I’m afraid Babies “R” Us has blown up in our living room, wiping out all traces of comfort, order and an actual home. All that remains are boxes of diapers, car seat paraphernalia, Pack ‘n Plays, books, tubs, high chairs, towels and approximately one-billion-and-two pink onesies, along with the nursery glider sitting SMACK DAB IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROOM until the rest of the furniture (which is only two months late) finally arrives tomorrow. At which time, I plan to stick out my pot-roast belly as far as it will possibly go — may extend to Malibu at this point — with the hope that the delivery men will be so eager to escape the sight, they will gladly carry the glider up to the baby’s room as well. And if THAT doesn’t work, Mr. Candy will just have to slip them an Alexander Hamilton. (That’s the kind of smooth high rollers we are.)
In the meantime, we have a fluffy soldier diligently guarding our loot:
Of course, once Sergeant Marcy realizes the loot comes with an actual squirming, screaming BABY, she may be quick to resign her post.
Yours in utter chaos,