We came back from our honeymoon to Ireland with a baby. While other visitors to the Emerald Isle typically prefer to scoop up an Aran sweater or a Waterford vase, we opted for a life-altering souvenir of the belly-swelling sort. Not that we exactly knew it at the time. Had I known while returning through customs I would of course have huffed, when asked if I had anything to declare, “That is absolutely none of your business, sir.”
Today we find ourselves at 14 weeks and some change. The young lad(y) is due in early August, at which time we presume it will instantly brand itself a D.C. native by crowing about how blissfully empty the restaurants are and sighing with irritation from its Baby Bjorn perch at tourists standing to the left on Metro escalators.
Feel free to come along for the fun. If you think this is going to be a mommy blog, you probably don’t know the Bird that well. You’ll learn. And yes, of course you should immediately start emailing me stupid baby junk that you find on the interwebs. Because yes, of course there are going to be Why the Baby Industry Hates Us Fridays.