So I’m pregnant. Very good and pregnant. Due in eight weeks.
And Iâ€™ve been working very hard to create a warm and loving and peaceful environment for our son to come home to. Look! (click to enlarge)
That’s the nursery. See the spackling I did? Done with love. And peace. And your standard third trimester hysterical nesting.
Things I Have Done:
1) Spackled, in case you did not notice the spackling.
2) Vacuumed my kitchen cabinets.
3) Vacuumed my throw pillows.
4) Organized all CDs alphabetically.
5) Organized medications in bathroom cabinet by possible side effects.
6) Thought seriously about re-grouting bathtub.
7) Realized that I do not know how to re-grout bathtub.
8) Bought primer, paint and a special ventilation-breathing-mask-thing for nursery.
9) Bought one of those fancy flushable toilet brush gadgets because honestly, how have I lived all these years with a traditional, germy toilet brush? How have I not even given its presence a second thought? Am I some kind ofsavage?
10) Read latest Harry Potter, thrown latest Harry Potter at wall.
11) See item #1.
Things I Have Not Done:
1) Everything else.
My mother-in-law is a professional Martha Stewart-type person, and has offered to paint and decorate the nursery with all sorts of whimsical woodland creatures and, I don’t know, a reproduction of the Sistine Chapel. Herself. As in, I do not have to do anything except watch my language and refrain discussing how I will never let her son ever see me naked again lest he DO THIS TO ME AGAIN WITH HIS DEMON SEED while she’s here.
"Just prime the walls and do the basecoat!" she told us.
"I’ll do the rest!"
The room is not painted. Or primed. But holes have been spackled! Look again at the nice spackle!
I have heard, from several different women, stories of painting and readying the nursery months in advance, only for some type of fit to be thrown over THE OBVIOUSLY HORRIBLE WHAT-WERE-WE-THINKING PAINT COLOR, which leads to the entire room being re-painted the week before the baby is born.
Husband thinks: There is no way I am painting that damn room twice. I am not picking up a paintbrush until her water breaks.
Amy thinks: Holy God, we barely have enough time for one coat of paint, much less an entirely second coat when I freak out and change my mind. WE MUST PAINT THIS INSTANT SO I HAVE TIME TO HATE IT.
Then I usually lie down instead. Or attempt some other vital household project, like the organizing of photos from my 10th grade class trip to Spain into pretty photo boxes.
Obviously, painting isn’t the only thing the nursery needs. We need to clear out all the non-baby-related crap, like the ironing board.
When you live in a condo the size of a postage stamp, finding a new home for the ironing board is not easy, and you may actually get into fights about the ironing board, especially if you are Us.
"Where are we going to put the ironing board?"
(hysterical, wild-eyed silence)
"We’ll have to keep it in our bedroom somewhere."
"It’ll be in the way if we just stick it somewhere."
"Well, MAYBE we’ll have to start behaving like GROWN-UPS WHO IRON THEIR CLOTHES BEFORE HANGING THEM UP AND WHO ALSO PUT THE STUPID IRONING BOARD AWAY WHEN THEY ARE NOT USING IT."
"STOP YELLING AT ME."
"I AM NOT YELLING."
The nursery also needs furniture, which we have not ordered, but we have gone to many stores and stared VERY HARD at various sets and taken brochures and nodded thoughtfully as helpful salespeople have shown us how to operate the drop-down side of various cribs.
Then the salespeople walk away and I try to lower the sides myself and never, ever can. I think I may have broken one at BabiesRUs by kicking it in frustration. THAT CRIB WAS MOCKING ME, PEOPLE. I HAVE A COLLEGE DEGREE.
You should have seen what I did to that &%$# bitch of a Bugaboo stroller.