My sister called during her drive home last night and we had a few minutes to catch up before she walked through her front door. After that, it was pretty much a lost cause.
“Do you hear that?” she asked as my niece shrieked in the background. “She’s saying, ‘no bathtime, no!’ Oh lord, now she’s running naked through the living room.”
The most excitement we have around here is when the cat throws up at three a.m. and we have to guess which piece of furniture she’s decorating.
“Oh baybee… oh baybee,” crooned Ella, settled in the tub, as my sister tried to dig up information on their crib. We’re having a hard time selecting a brand, and I’m taking all recommendations. I have no problem preventing my sister from assisting during bathtime to achieve this goal, though I don’t think she minded terribly.
After several hours at Ikea and Target, and several more reading up on makes and models, we’re struggling. Maybe we’re overthinking things, which seems to be the trend with me at the moment; I’ve been concerned that the nursery doesn’t get much light, and as a result we will have a somber little cave baby. But then the cat found a sunbeam there over the weekend and plopped down in it, blissfully unaware of the days to come in which a streaking toddler will send her scrambling for refuge under the bed, where she will undoubtedly throw up.