Crib

You would think that I would respond with an irresponsible, emotionally jarring retort to my wife's most recent post but to tell you the truth, I am so appreciative that preggerbrain hasn't completely bankrupted her ability to remember three non-consecutive events, I don't even care that she humiliated me on a global forum.

Speaking of bursting with pride, I built a crib this week.  I felled two trees, whittled the timber and coated my creation in a natural homemade stain.

Or, I dropped a bunch of money on wood that somebody else felled, whittled and stained and spent a Wednesday night screwing everything together with an impossibly small Allen wrench.  I mean, honestly, how is it that you spend a small fortune on the best, safest, most highly-rated crib around, yet the screws they give you to build it are taped to a piece of cardboard and everything is to be put together with a tool that is too small for even an average-size handed man, let alone one with my near-feminine paws?  It boggles the mind.

Regardless of the hotspot blisters that resulted, I thoroughly enjoyed building my child's first sleeping arrangements.  Here is visual proof:

  

That would be the Allen wrench that I am displaying triumphantly.

What's crazy about building the crib is that it is the physical representation of a now indisputable fact:

LIFE'S.  GETTING.  REAL.

Tomorrow is day 1 of month 8.  Week 32.  We have a crib.  And a changing table.  And a can of light blue paint for the nursery.  Which contains a closet and dresser full of impossibly cute yet tiny clothing.  And the only reason I have for not getting the painting done immediately is because of all the work I am doing to get up to speed at my new job.  Which I need to succeed at so that I can feed my kid.  Who will live in a house.  In the suburbs.  With a garage.  Which contains a lawnmower.  That I purchased.  And use.  Every weekend.

REALLY.  REAL.

Wouldn't have it any other way.  Just two more months until we get to meet the little guy.  Smile emoticon.