- car seat
- Boppy (what the hell is a Boppy? But everyone says I need it!)
- night light
- crib toys
- breast pump (oh, dear; please, please, please, I am not ready to discuss breast pumps)
- nursing bras
- stretch mark lotion
- baby monitor
- moses basket
- laundry detergent
- baby bathtub
- preventative measure for keeping kitties out of the baby's crib/moses basket/bassinet
- all the many other items (rectal thermometer? articles of clothing?) that if I continue to think about I will have a full-on panic attack and NOW IS NOT THE TIME FOR THIS.
(In 12 years of marriage we have had exactly two house guests, both guitarists, both interested only in a warm cozy place to sleep and to perhaps treat us to dinner in exchange for the privilege of sleeping with our cats on an air mattress, while on their way someplace else. Both were delightful. Both stayed less than two days.)
At 4:15 a.m. when I woke up in the pitch black morning, I sat there (well, technically I was lying down) in bed for awhile mulling over the various reference materials I have at my fingertips to look at for ideas about these and all the millions of other things we need, and then my poor little brain exploded, and I got up to do what I always do when that happens, the only possible repair for exploded brain syndrome, and that is: I went into the kitchen, turned on NPR, and did the dishes.
The other day, last month, I visited a friend of mine who has a beautifully remodeled home, and she showed me the closet she had had installed in the living room specifically for her daughter's "crap." And she said, "you know, kids have a lot of stuff!" At the time I (secretly) scoffed, because I thought, on my stupid uninformed high horse (get that horse some reading material!), oh my god, is that what having a child is about? Buying them STUFF?" and maybe not, but there is definitely some stuff that is absolutely required, and my teeny tiny unremodeled, could still be 1944, house, is nowhere big enough or in possession of nearly enough closet space for this KID who is coming to stay with us. FOREVER. And all his stuff has to go somewhere.
Patrick used his day off today to clear the room of all the stuff I was supposed to go through and throw away/file/put away and I have a feeling he took all that stuff and put it in a big pile in the middle of the garage floor. The idea is that I will drag a chair out there and my iPod and go through it with an eye for detail and organization and you know, organize it. Yep. That's the idea. Probably what will happen is, it will be shoved into plastic bins and hidden away in the dark recesses of the garage, never to be seen again.
That's okay, though, because he's the one who will have to paint and prime and patch holes and paint the inside of the closet (why is it, if you neglect to specifically ask a man to paint a closet, he just flat out won't do it?).
See, there's no hurry (four more months to go!) but there kind of is, because I suck at making decisions (we bought the crib and dresser yesterday but still need to pick wall colors and bedding and all that other stuff) and left to my own devices I might not ever figure out what I want in there, at all, and my baby will end up in a lime green room to match the lime green bathroom, and NOBODY WANTS THAT.
And all this talk about painting gets my eyes to looking around the rest of the house and things that need to be updated and sanded, primed and repainted, but Patrick doesn't really want to do that and wouldn't it just be easier to move?
I will calm down eventually but today is not that day.