Last night, Scott and I were lying in bed watching TV. A commercial came on for that new movie with Robert Duvall and Joaquin Phoenix.
I said, “Mmmm…. I loves me some Joaquin Phoenix.”
“Really?” Scott asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “He’s scrummy.”
Scott looked at me kind-of funny, cocked his head sideways, and said, “I’ve never heard you say anything like that before.”
And then I fell apart laughing. And couldn’t stop. Toppled over, giggling hysterically. Tried to say something to, I don’t know, defend myself? Laughed harder. Have I ever expressed a crush on a celebrity, out loud, the entire time Scott has known me? Probably not. Why is this so funny? Don’t know. Couldn’t make any words come out. Just kept laughing.
When the waves subsided, Scott said, “You’d better write about this in your blog. People think all you ever do is cry all the time.”
* * *
When my pregnant friends tell me how worried they are that they don’t have the right gear yet, or won’t ever, I remind them that baby can sleep in a drawer.
Not so sure anymore how brilliant we were to buy that used furniture off of craigslist, as the process of sanding and painting all those individual pieces (drawers, doors, bases, sides, etc.) is seeming more and more daunting. We could just reassemble it all, use it as-is. The pine crib/captains-bed thing is nice and shiny, honey-colored, where it’s not scratched or already christened with crayon. The “shabby chic” dresser/sideboard thing will certainly lose its chic cred if we paint over the yellowy knotholes that currently show through the deliberately-thinned antique-white finish. We could put a sticker over the incense stick burn mark (oh to be young again and burning things accidentally with incense sticks).
Nothing HAS to be done here. It’s just that neither Scott nor I has really ever made our living spaces so martha stewart, and to however inexpertly refinish those pieces would indeed make for a very pretty room for our offspring. A room that Scott has already made so nice by freshly painting the walls, moldings, doors, and ceiling.
If I never unpack the boxes of clothes and gear that we’ve received so far and stowed in various corners of various rooms in the house, it’s okay. Other people are going to come over and visit after baby comes. They can help. We’ve got a post-partum doula, for gosh-sakes. She can wash a onesie for me, or run to Target if we need something.
I think we’re going to be fine.
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