…was a fur-less baby that can’t even talk.

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What did he get? Winkles, Whoozits, Lovies and a bunch of shit that makes loud, irritating noises and is destined to give me a headache that lasts, say, the rest of my life.

I’m not a big gift guy. When someone asks me what I want for Christmas or my birthday, I never know what to say. Ironically, my son – who CAN’T say anything – gets a king’s bounty of presents. Which is great. Less stuff for us to buy, except, of course, for the mansion I’ll soon have to spring for just to accommodate all the baby/toddler/kid crap required to take care of/raise/educate/entertain/preoccupy/distract/shut up a child.

Not sure I had as many accoutrements when I was a kid, and I know for a fact that my parents didn’t. But just as our ancestors were unable to raise healthy children without avoiding caffeine and cold cuts and soft cheese, and without making sure they slept enough or didn’t sleep too much and had their Baby Einstein and were read to and never left alone to scream and had their eyes wiped with cotton balls, parents today are unable to produce well-adjusted people without buying as much useless crap for them as possible.

So we go to Buy Buy Baby and Babies ‘R Us and countless baby boutiques and the closest garbage cans to find things to amuse and confuse our children.

And then, two months later, when they’ve outgrown every new piece of clothing and every new developmentally-helpful toy, we put them on our front stoop and hope someone gives us fifty cents for them.

Fine, I’ll take a quarter. Just get it out of here.