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The Scrapheap of History

Welcome to another Fatherhood Friday! I’ve spent the last few days gearing up for a week on the road at a tradeshow for my company, and working with the folks at Dad Blogs on a huge Father’s Day Giveaway in conjunction with my column Armed and Fatherly. Time has gotten the best of me, so I’ve decided to promote my Tuesday post to the coveted Friday slot. Enjoy (if you haven’t already)!

Here I sit, suddenly finding myself relegated  to the basement, spilling my tale of woe to any that will listen.  I used to be one of the most vital tools in this family’s arsenal of infant management, a paragon of safety and comfort that provided joy and security to everyone involved.  Now instead, I’m perched atop a forgotten futon, a relic of a bygone era.  For you see, I was once an irreplaceable and mighty infant car seat.

I was unboxed and assembled with great excitement by expectant parents anxiously awaiting their offspring.  I remember fondly the day I was installed, the taller one jamming his knee into my stomach to strap me tightly into the car.  I also recall with less fondness when the uniformed fellow unlatched me, and then crushed my soul with his body to secure me to the seat. How I endlessly practiced for my approaching duties, suffering through a deluge of sleeping cats, folded wash, and Heineken mini-kegs perched in my rugged seat.

And then my personal Superbowl arrived, and I was brought into the hospital room, which reeked of c-section bandages and new parent sweat.  I was treated with the same high respect as the mighty crib, or the magical Diaper Genie (who eats the foul droppings of the child) as I was prepped for duty.  Then I embraced the trembling bag of flesh that was laid into me, and felt for the first time my purpose in life.  I was the Secret Service of baby care, willing to sacrifice my molded plastic to protect the life of this small bundle of life.

The months flew by as my Justine grew steadily, filling up more and more of my ample space, straining my five point harness to it’s Consumer Reports tested limits.  I endured long trips, fierce temper tantrums, drool soakings, and the occasional spit up without complaint.  I served as carrier in the car, and often mobile sleeping platform in the house.  It was a purposeful existence, and with all the downtime I was able to pursue my interest in fruit conveyance – I recently received my University of Phoenix Online degree and am now also certified as a fruit basket.

But alas it was with horror that I was ripped from my seat of honor this past weekend, set aside and forced to watch as my successor was put in place.  Oh, they’ll tell you, I was getting too small for their darling child, wasn’t as comfortable, didn’t let her see out the window while they were driving.  How I seethed as the snooty Britax Marathon was brought out, who sneered in my general direction as they belted it in, adjusted its “fancy pants” reclining seat and easy to snap LATCH connectors.  He gave a final snort in my direction as I was roughly taken inside and thrown here, in the basement, swept to the dustbin of antiquated baby stuff, lodged between the Snap and Go and the bassinet.

They’ll be back for me, someday.  Until then I’ll wait, and try to ignore the bassinet who is endlessly prattling on about how important he used to be, and instead try to make friends with the old blanket from college that doesn’t get used anymore but is too nostalgic to throw away.  That guy knows how to party.

- MWF -

Fatherhood Friday at Dad Blogs

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  • Otter

    I hope that the forgotten baby gear doesn’t ever get angry because we went through stuff so fast that we have an army of obsolete gadgets in our house.

  • Daddy Diaries

    Wow, now I feel bad for all my older baby gear. Maybe you should get moving on a new “user”

  • paul(mytwodaddies)

    All the old gear is in a storage room in our house. I hope they are not conspiring against us as they lay there.

  • Jason

    yikes, and we have 2 baby seats lol. Come to think of it, we really should be getting rid of them…

  • WeaselMomma

    It all happens too fast. Don’t blink or you will be walking her down the aisle.