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"You absolutely need the wipe warmer," my sister-in-law hissed across the table, leaning in like she was giving me state secrets. "If a cold wipe touches that baby's bottom, you'll never sleep again." "Don't buy anything," my hippie neighbor countered...

I'm standing in our London flat at 2am, holding an iPad my American mother-in-law mailed across the Atlantic, staring at a digital spreadsheet that's fifty rows deep in burp cloths alone. My wife is asleep on the sofa, heavily pregnant...