Memorial Day weekend was the first weekend we'd been home in the last month, so that meant one thing - knock some shit out.Husband spent the weekend preparing for his annual pilgrimage to the Wakarusa Festival in Arkansas where he is responsible for providing equipment for the bands. This is no small feat and frankly, I don't know how he does it. I do know it provides some nice extra income, so I keep my mouth shut.
My weekend focus was the soon-to-be nursery. For the record, I am not a crafty, visually artistic person. I am the person for whom home magazines are printed - here are some pretty pictures of rooms for you to copy. This is the same approach I take with the baby room. I wanted simple and contemporary, but not overly baby-ish. And to keep Husband happy, no pink.
So I find my ideal nursery pic, head to Home Depot for the specific gray paint listed and get to work. After patching walls, cleaning baseboards, taping and moving furniture, I get the first coat applied on Sunday. We head out to dinner. Upon arriving home I want to admire my handiwork. I flip on the light switch.
Tears immediately begin to pour down my face. It's the kind of crying that quickly escalates into huge gulping sobs. Husband asks what's wrong. I answer, the nursery (sniff) is blue (sob) and we're (sniff) having a girl.
He pauses.
"Are you afraid this will give her some sort of gender-identity crisis?"
I pause. "No (sob). It's just supposed to be gray."
"Why don't we sleep on it?"
Okay.
That night I have a horrible dream about the kid wanting to be on Toddlers and Tiaras. The next morning I determine the color perfectly acceptable, slap on a second coat and contemplate if Star Wars artwork is appropriate for a nursery.
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