The world’s population is increasing at an alarming rate, if my circle of friends is any indication. We have hit the age where it’s now or never for baby making, and more people then I expected are making good use of their ovaries. The most unfortunate side effect of this unprecedented burst of births is that I am forced to spend valuable time within the hollow, soulless maw of Babies R Us.

 This store is enormous; it resembles nothing more than a dismal, pastel splattered warehouse. Exposed pipes and beams arch over the customers in utilitarian glory, and bleak, characterless music saps what little strength the shopping parents may have left. My first visit lasted less than five minutes. I ran in terror, feeling as if some monster from a David Lynch movie has sucked out my essence. Subsequent visits have lasted longer as my strength and desperation for gifts grew stronger. I tend to wander aimlessly up and down the aisle, peering at items called “piddle pads” and “pee cups” in fascinated disgust. I have no idea what to get or what a baby needs and the store itself offers no clues. Even when there is a registry to follow, the aisle and category numbering is so confusing that I usually end up buying the first thing I’m able to understand the use of. I’m fond of the baby bag. Baby goes in bag. Makes sense to me.

 The one thing I do like about the baby store is how soft everything is. Why don’t they make adult t-shirts or pillows out of this material? I would even put up with the graphic of a giraffe and bear hugging to have a blanket as cuddly as what babies get on a regular basis. I spend half my time feeling around the store like a newly blind person.

 There are two types of people in Babies R Us: people with babies and people who are about to have babies. It’s easy to spot which is which by their stomach size and number of babies they are pushing around. Their attitude is also a big indicator. People about to have babies are still nice, normal humans. People with babies are beasts who would run you down with a cart full of diapers and piddle pads rather than move an inch out of your way. There are of course exceptions to this rule. None of my friends have ever run over my foot with a stroller and smiled at my pain. However, I’m watching them closely and am prepared to perform an exorcism at a moments notice.

I assume there are other people like me, friends of the fertile, skulking around the store, hiding from the triplets and the scary soccer-moms-to-be. Maybe we can get together and make a fort out of the diapers or giggle at the breast pump displays.