There is a sign above the rabbit cage in a local pet store that reads:

Warning: These live a long time and are hard to take care of.

My initial reaction when I heard about this was that of laughter, followed quickly by irritation. Why don't babies come with a warning like this? Why is this message not printed at the beginning of the standard parenting manual?

And, before anyone states the obvious: why is there no damn parenting manual? Don't they realize we need one? A how-to guide should have been included in the evolutionary process of our species. Soon we'll be born with no little toes or wisdom teeth. Why can't some chapters on sleeping and poop consistencies and - shudder - what to do when you find condoms in your teen's pocket be included in there?

Like most women, my crazy comes out full force when I'm pregnant. Other than being highly irrational and hating things like chocolate and coffee, the rest of the insanity comes though in dreams.

When I was a nineteen-year-old expecting mama to Intrepid, I had a dream I was getting my hair did at the local salon. The stylists were making a huge fuss over my "adorable belly" which, truth be told, was much cuter and rounder than my awake one.

'Would you like to have a peak at your baby? It's only an extra $12,' asked my hair stylist. She had crazy curly bright red hair, so maybe she was Nat. Not too sure, but it's a distinct possibility.

'You can do that?' I asked, astonished.

'Absolutely. All the girls are certified in it. You'll be happy you did!'

What did I have to lose? I was nearly full-term anyway and dying to get a glimpse of our impending arrival.

She rubbed a numbing cream over my smooth, stretch mark-free stomach (aren't dreams wonderful?) and took out a scalpel. Very carefully, she made a 90 degree incision and folded back a thin layer of skin. Underneath that layer was a see-through sac (no fat, though - have I mentioned dreams are wonderful?) and, inside the sac, a beautiful little baby.

'Aww! There's the baby. How sweet!' they all cooed.

I looked at my gorgeous little baby and its thick umbilical cord. I started to tear up a little bit. What a wondrous site! What a gift! What a... What on earth was that? Something floated up from behind my baby's curled up body and - bloop! - rested between it and the embryonic sac. It appeared to be a small booklet and a couple of pamphlets, all encased in waterproof plastic.

'Look! There it is!' shouted the hairstylist who could be Nat. 'The instruction manual and registration card! Make sure to fill that out right after your little one's arrival.

'... There's... There's an instruction manual?' I gasped. This was too good to be true. Here I was, scared out of my mind that I would have no idea what to do with a newborn, and the whole time it was going to come with instructions? I felt like I had won the lottery. 'Can I look at it?'

'No, honey. You can't right now. You have to wait until the baby is born.' She began to close the skin flap again.

Panicked, I started to scramble for some kind of compromise. 'Ok. But... Wait! Could I just peak at the front of it through the plastic? It would be nice to get a head start, you know? Please?'

The stylist laughed and sealed my belly shut. 'Wouldn't it, though? Sorry, doll. You'll have to wait a few more weeks. But wasn't that worth the $12? That baby is going to be so cute!' and with that, she went back to layering my locks.

It was then that I woke up angry. What a cruel dream. See my baby and not touch it? See an instruction manual and not read it? What a sick mind I had! The realization that it was all in my head and there would be no manual upon Intrepid's arrival pretty much ruined my day. Stupid brain. Stupid imagination.

However, twelve years later and ramping up into puberty, I can say for certain that I'm thankful Intepid did not come with a registration card. There are countless times I would have considered returned him as 'malfunctioning' and demanded a repair or replacement if it had been an option.

I guess it's a good thing there are no warranties, guarantees or guides of any kind when it comes to raising gremlins. Also, there's no way a manual on childrearing could have come out of my hooha. Or anyone's hooha, I would think.

I would hope.

Let's not dwell on that thought for very long. I would rather not lie awake all night haunted by traumatizing visions.

Naturally if one is a regular here, one would be looking for a moral to the story. So here it is:

Bunnies come with warnings and babies do not, which makes absolutely no sense, since bunnies are easier to care for. Also, do not try to birth anything other than an infant because your hooha will be quite sore. And then you'll wish it had its own warrantee card.