Third Time’s a Charm

When I was in the hospital having the girl, my sister-in-law organized my baby stuff for me. I hadn’t done it before. It wasn’t that I didn’t have time… I was living with my parents, and I didn’t have an official nursery, so I guess I took that as my Get Out Of Nesting Free Card, or something.
I did take up crocheting again, so there’s that.

With my son, I didn’t have anything ready because he came so early. and so FAST.
With this one? I’m determined to be armed and ready. Again, I don’t really have a nursery (I’ve given up on the notion. I’ve talked myself into the idea that having a nursery is something for the purple-blooded American class… I’m a simpleton).
I’m not going to lie. It hasn’t been easy.
I’m pretty sure my husband wants to put away his wife.

Today was the day we were going to go to our storage unit, pull out all of our baby girl stuff AND our Christmas stuff and get it all set up and taken care of.
Can’t you see me with my can-do face on, dusting my pants and smiling at my perfectly set up house?

Once we got to the storage unit, we ended up completely cleaning it out and reorganizing it. And you might as well sweep it up while you’re at it, says my husband.
We came home a few hours later.
I died on the couch.
My husband ate.
My children sang “Gangnam Style” in their very best American.

Over the summer (or was it last summer?) our storage units were sort of ravaged with rain water. I managed to rescue some of my books (it WAS last summer, it’s all coming back to me now). I didn’t dig around enough to realize that of all the cardboard boxes to be on the very bottom of the storage unit…
My boxes full of baby girl clothes were buried, trampled, musty, and moldy.
But we pulled them out anyway. Since my boxing them up over 5 years ago, we’ve switched to storing things in plastic bins (we’re slow, okay?) so when I pack them away again they will be much safer.

Anyway: I pulled one item at a time out of the back of our truck and into our house.
I thought by the end of the day we’d have it all tackled and conquered. But my husband realized that he didn’t want a Christmas tree up until the ceiling had been painted.
So he painted.
Is painting.

Have you ever lived with a perfectionist? Well, if you’re not one… get one. He’s indispensable when it comes to stuff like that. Paint the ceiling? Psh. Who cares? Not me! But he does. And really: someone OUGHT to care.

While he toiled away at the ceiling, I washed and rinsed and folded and completely REMOVED MOLD from clothing. I’m feeling pretty accomplished about the whole thing. It was a long process involving intense bleach-soaking in the bathtub (a few teensy pink outfits were harmed in the making of my magic), hot water washing with bleach, and a second wash with delicate baby detergent that I WHIPPED UP all by my lonesome.
See my smoking gun?
I am. The Kitchen Mother Chemist: cheap.
My biggest bragging right? I completely SAVED the outfit I brought my eldest home from the hospital in. Fairly SWAM in it, she did.

Betcha can’t guess where her feet are in that newborn onesie. Also: the bruise on her head makes me relive labor and delivery all over again.
It’s all about preparing mentally, right?

Just before I turn in tonight, I want to share with you what I’ve done. It isn’t like my methods are revolutionary or THE BEST or really even worthy of showing off at all, but it’s all fun and new for me.
I’m esscited, okay?
Plus I need validation that something actually got done today. You’ll see why in a minute.

I put that together all by my bad self. Okay, my little brother helped… but he’s such a nice kid, he’d give me all the credit. I know he would.

I don’t actually HAVE any diapers or wipes yet, but I will so very soon. Can you believe just last week my TV was sitting where the blankets are? And my DVDs have been relocated to make room for pink, frilly, sweet smelling, tiny, cute and wonderful BABY clothes. Those preemie size outfits are just downright irresistible. No one with a heart can look at them and NOT melt.

The 3-12 month clothes are not folded. They are SHOVED in there. Ahem, neatly.

I love that I can close the doors and hide it all away. It makes the room feel so much cleaner. And the knobs are great bib holders. They were born for it, I think.

A close friend of mine made me a nursing cover! I’ve never had one before and I am THRILLED. Even if this baby doesn’t take to the (I want to say “tit” but I don’t think Mom would like that)… I’ll still use it. eet’s for fun.
And I know the next two pictures are ridiculously unremarkable. But hey. That’s me.
The girl who never had a nursery and uses words like (tit) in parenthesis.

The bathtub is bleached and ready to go (complete with a girly hooded towel, all folded up). And here’s the bouncer. We never got much use out of this bouncer chair.
My daughter hated it, and she used it maybe 3 times before figuring out that it was nothing more than a wobbly vehicle. She used it as a step stool -just like she used EVERYTHING at her level as a step stool.
Oh, my house was one filth-hole in those days.

I like to think that this one will absolutely BASK in the bouncer. She’ll coo and squirm and never soil it because I’m sure the baby that is sitting tight in my stomach literally KICKING her way into the world and never, ever letting me slouch (kick in the ribs, anyone?) will be downright docile.
My view tonight as I sat down to watch an episode of “Hart of Dixie.”

There’s just not enough room for my organs and a baby. I’m tellin’ ya…
I have my to-do list taped to the inside of one of my kitchen cupboards, and I can’t even begin to tell you how relieving it is to cross at least one thing off that list every day.
And yes. I did write “name the baby” as something that definitely needs doing.

So here it is… the reason I need validation that something got done today… my house presently looks like this:

My perfectionist, people, is hard at work.
Staring at it makes me anxious and crabby, so I’m holed up in my room. I’ve got my calf on a heating pad (I was hit with the most painful charlie horses I’ve ever had in my 27 years last night, and my right calf is one big, fat knot tonight), my giant 9-foot pillow standing by, and a small bit of baby’s life organized.
I’m officially more organized than I’ve ever been before bringing a baby into the world.  *fist pump*
It’s a happy thing, really. And only slightly sad (poor previous kids. Mom loves you just as much, promise).

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