I have sat down to write, and then trashed the post only to restore it a day later and try editing again, about ten times.
I still have no idea what, exactly, I want to say.
This last week my husband and I came to the conclusion we really should not wait any longer to set up the “nursery.” That, if we did nothing else, at least the furniture and big things should be moved and arranged.
The house was torn apart in about fifteen minutes. The cats hid in the bathroom, and I envied their ability to escape the chaos.
The upheaval — and what it represented — conspired to make me cranky. Not only did my cluttered, disaster-area of a living room turn into The Mess From Hell (which just makes me annoyed all by itself. Not that I’m some fantastic housekeeper or anything, but there’s clutter, and then there’s CLUTTER…), but seeing the familiar wood of the crib Michael never got to use tripped the tear faucet. Big time. I blubbered my way to work that morning, shamed by previous failure, and unable to shake this fear that the end is nigh. That the proverbial shoe is going to DROP at any minute, and we’ll be right back where we started when we returned home last June to a house-full of broken dreams and unfulfilled wishes. Or worse.
Please, God, don’t make me do it again. Don’t make my husband go through that again. Please, I beg — let us all live through this, healthy and whole…
Any time I’m not actively distracting myself with some other task, the fears rise up like a tidal wave and threaten to drown me. So spooked am I, that my version of “baby planning” this time is making contingency plans.
I realize I am far too wary for my own good.
The crib looked so very wrong, so I took a deep breath and waddled up to the storage room to get the blanket.
For some reason, the crib looks better now, with that draped across the edge.
Contingency plans are in the final stages.
I don’t know what else to do.