I’ve been slowly collecting baby clothes for months now. Baby boy clothes, so I suppose it’s a good thing I was right about that. I mean, I knew I was right about that, but I suppose returning or re-selling it all would have been a pain. (Honestly, I probably would have just dressed a girl in blue for awhile)
The room seems to be taking an inappropriate amount of time to clean/sand/paint. You wouldn’t think yellow would require 17 coats to cover an off white, but apparently it does.
We are finally rid of the green couches, (circa 1982.) The dogs jumping up and down on them split them at the seams. I tried to donate them but Salvation Army doesn’t FIX things anymore. Of course, for any piece of junk you can imagine, there is someone on Freecycle willing to come take it away. (Seriously, Freecycle is pretty awesome)
Here’s hoping the new couches can withstand the dogs, the kid, and a new kid, complete with all the standard kid-goo.
I’m not even halfway done, and I am tired. And I can’t shake this urge that everything needs to be DONE already. It’s really early for the crazed nesting instinct to kick in so I’m wondering if this is an indication that I’m going to end up on bedrest. Or maybe it’s an indication that I’m crazy. Either way, I know I’m driving the man crazy.
Part of it is just me trying to… get excited again. Everything is still tinged with a touch of sadness, and I’m so afraid to let myself get attached. At the same time, I need to get attached, I need to see some evidence that this is really happening. I need a crib set up so I can imagine him in it. I need to put his tiny things away. I need to prepare. To bond. To get excited.