Pimp My Crib

Today the UPS man delivered our latest project: the baby's crib. The box had a hole in it the size of both of my fists, and the delivery guy said, "Yeah, the hole's pretty big, but I don't think the crib's been damaged. It looks like it happened on the underside ..." Unless he had Superman X-ray-like vision, I'm not sure how he could have known that, but I chose to let it go for the moment.

When Tim got home, he was eager to begin the project. I don't care how computer geeky a man is, something in most men gives them the urge to every once in a while say, "Don't you worry about this here project, little lady. Once I get my tool belt on and find my tool box, whoo-wee we're in business!" Never mind that it may only get used once every four months, a man needs a tool box.

Anyway, Tim worked quietly for an hour or so putting the crib together while I made no attempt to help him. My pelvis was hurting, so I felt no desire to be an assistant. I waited for something to go wrong (missing pieces, damaged pieces, frustration, etc.), because we purchased the crib online without ever getting to see it in person. But, nothing ever did. Finally, Tim said, "Come see."

The crib was perfect. It looked sturdy, modern, but above all, it said to me, "Yes, you are having a baby, and this is where he/she will be." The crib is such an imposing piece of furniture; it can't be ignored like most of the baby gear we have. It says in no uncertain terms that someone is moving in.

Naturally, I didn't sleep at all last night. I kept waking up, paranoid, thinking, "Why isn't the baby moving? Is everything OK?!?" Something about seeing the crib in place made me desperate. It's almost like what happens after someone sends out formal invitations to a wedding and buys a dress. There's an unspoken commitment that the event will take place and lives will be changed. I thought, as I rocked myself, "I can't let anything happen to this baby. People are expecting a baby, and I've got to deliver one! Yes, baby, precious baby ..."

This morning I was better. We had a doctor's appointment, and everything turned out fine. The doc said my pelvic pain is probably my ligaments under strain and will only bother me more as I get bigger. So, as most of my doc's diagnoses have been lately, the answer came down to, "It's all part of the package."

Oh, well. At least now I can start pimpin' my kid's digs out: comfy mattress, soft sheets, and designer bedding I've had my eye on. By the time I'm done, I'll probably sleep in the crib myself and let the kid nap with Tim.