WTF Is Up With Carseats?

This is one thing that nobody told me about.  I mean, I'm aware of carseats.  They're sort of a necessity for small tiny humans and we've babysat for our nieces a couple of times and they with carseats-  carseats that my brother-in-law painstakingly shoved and poked and prodded into the necessary position in the back seat of our Subaru.  They seemed awfully cumbersome to buckle:  when you've got a two year old who may or may not be in the mood to sit still depending on what's going on in the world and/or her general mood at the time that raises the difficulty level a few notches.   But up until a month ago, that was the extent of my experience with carseats.

We got the news that The Cigarillo was coming to us and then, then everything changed.   I'm not one to worry about clothing- I let the Missus handle that aspect of it as usually I just get out of bed and put on whatever happens to be closest by and clean- or failing that, smells the least bad.  I am not a clothes person by any stretch of the imagination.  Mother Cigar would drag me kicking and screaming to shop for clothes when I was growing up and I usually ended up picking some truly hideous shirts for myself because I thought they weren't boring. (This was a long and tragic period for me that lasted into high school, when it was replaced by a weird period of using various flags as do-rags/bandanas and followed by dying my hair every color I could think of.  I was...   different, put it that way.)

But some spark of testosterone primordial maleness kicked me in the oxipetal when it came to carseats.  I wanted a good carseat.  I wanted protection.  Little Man Cigarillo would ride in comfort, style and if a Panzer attempted to ram (always a possibility here in Iowa, of course.  Anyone who's driven I-380 between the IC and Cedar Rapids after a decent winter storm will tell you that it looks almost exactly like the aftermath of a tank battle.  Minus the smoking and burning parts) our car then by golly I wanted him not to get so much as a tickle on his little toes.   Plus cupholders.  A bad-ass carseat needed to have cupholders.

So, the Missus and I found ourselves cruising the carseat aisle at Target, examining the possibilities.  Eventually we settled on a Graco My Ride 65 or something and lugged it  back to the Subaru and then back to our Casa where it sat, unlamented in the garage for a couple of days as I put off installing it (a task the Missus designated to me, the man) as long as I could as I had a feeling that it would a gigantic pain in the ass.

That, as it turned out was something of an understatement.  I'm increasingly convinced that whomever designs carseats is some kind of evil, Smurf-like sadist or alternatively, the really old bad-ass Chinese Dude (Pai Mei!) from the Kill Bill movies (because, like carseat designers, they mean well but are going to make your life a living hell as a character building lesson.)  After getting the carseat out of the box, you then find the instructions.  Pasted all over the instructions are big, red, scary warnings telling you in no circumstances should even attempt, not even a little bit to install a carseat until you've read every single word in this tiny, ninety page manual.

So, I did that.   Then I realized on about page three that these instructions were probably written in Sanskrit of some kind.  I mean, I knew I was reading English.  I just wasn't comprehending the words that were on the page in front of me due to some weird, you know, thing.   So I did what all people who find themselves in a comprehension-challenged situation do:  I went to YouTube.

Three YouTube videos, a lot of swearing and some Chewbacca-like grunts of frustration later, I had installed our car seat.  I briefly considered running into traffic when the Missus pointed out that we'd need the harnass adjusted- I really thought I was going to have to take it out and start over but I persevered and with some creative contortionism and a detailed examination of the car seat itself, I figured my way out of that problem all by myself.

I was very proud.

Needless to say, when we snagged our second vehicle, a purple (yes, purple) 1996 Chrysler Cirrus*, we got a car seat (a much cheaper one) for that vehicle as well.   I braced myself for another wrestling match with a carset- but you know what?  This time, everything went smoothly.  I took my time, read the instructions and everything worked.   I had the Missus double check and was relieved when it all went in the way it was supposed to.  Apparently, once you've gotten one under your belt** they get much, much easier after that.

But still:  WTF is up with car seats?  Seems like in the world of technological marvels that we live in today, we should have come up with something equally as safe but a hell of a lot easier to deal with than these damn things. 

I'm just saying is all.

*The new car was designated NPH for Neil Patrick Harris.  If you've ever seen Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle, you'll know what the 'PH' stands for. 

**Had a Nurse and a Police Officer check my car seat.  And I registered that sucker on line, so no worries.  I done it right.