July whimpers to a close. 33 weeks.
The litmus test of procreating: go hang out in a 'Babies R Us' for 45 minutes. It hammers home like nothing else what is in store for you after the kid slips out of its in utero bachelor apartment and into your arms. Watch parenting at its worst – children being allowed to wander free from their strollers and mothers, never to be seen again. Watch toddlers hula hoop the toilet seat of a portable potty as Mom and Dad pull everything off the shelf and stand hands on hips, blocking an aisle deciding which model to get. Watch the 14-year-old white trash couple play with the stuffed animals like they’re intended for them, and not their impending child (!) and try to not weep for their lost youth. Listen to the assorted menagerie noises of squealing, crying, things falling, things breaking, musical toys bleating out their last whimper as the batteries die. Stand in front of a wall of breastfeeding paraphernalia and resist the urge to say out loud, “Ok, boobs, it’s your call. Whaddya want?”