Medically Enforced Nesting

Hello, friends.  I would LOVE to tell you that my recent absence has been due to my being too busy lounging seaside, eating bouillabaisse and being generally too fabulous to possibly sit down and write a blog entry.  But alas, this is not the case.  Last Tuesday, as AH and I were all ready to depart the next day for one final baby-free jaunt to the south of France, the sage-femme at my hospital appointment discovered that there were signs that little FT was trying to make a break for it (I don't think she liked the idea that we were going on a beach vacation without her).  So back into the drawer with the maternity swimsuit, and two weeks of modified bed rest for me.  There you have it: I haven't been too busy, I've been too boring.

Sidenote: I had a conversation with a visiting friend just yesterday about how I do NOT want this to slowly evolve into a mommy blog, and yet...that is pretty much what has been occupying my time.  So if you are one of those people who has installed the Baby Blocker facebook app, you might not want to read any further on this post (and, if you're so baby-adverse that you've enlisted technology to replace pictures of babies with pictures of kittens on a social networking site, please reevaluate your own incessant facebook posts concerning your dog/latest workout/how much you hate timeline).

At least AH and I weren't actually all that put out by the change of plans.  We were able to turn our train tickets into vouchers so that we can plan a vacation for a later date (so FT will get the beach time she so clearly is gunning for, the manipulative little scamp), and only had to pay for the first night of our hotel room.  And it turns out that all AH really wanted to do with his time off was relax and breath for a bit (he's still coming down from all the stress of finishing his PhD while working as a post-doc in another country).  As for me, I'm not one of those people who can't stand to be idle; I kind of dig it, to be honest.  The past week and a half has been like being on a sick day where you're not actually sick: movies in bed, trashy novels, multiple naps a day (hey, if I have to be in bed, I might as well make good use of that time, yes?  Besides, if she's anything like me as a child, I fully anticipate not sleeping again until FT heads off to university).  Also, Marseilles was probably not the place to be this past week anyway since AH and I, in our infinite luck and wisdom, scheduled a vacation to the south that happened to fall over the four days of unbearably hot weather that we've had this summer in France (yes, feel free to hate on us just a bit, all ye crispy Stateside dwellers).  As I am currently a large, unwieldy baby oven, pushing through other hot, crowded tourists to get to my tiny bit of sand seems that it would not have been nearly as appealing as what I did, which was lay like a sweaty beached whale in bed with a fan blowing directly on me, consuming gazpacho practically through an IV drip and watching many episodes of "Modern Family" (oh that Phil, what a hoot!).

Probably the best part of medically enforced confinement has been all sorts of additional nesting time:  AH bleached all of the used baby books that we snagged from the "free" shelf at the library, baby clothes were sorted and organized, and the hospital suitcase was packed (which is intense, since the average hospital stay for a new mom in a French hospital is five days). And, perhaps most exciting, the IKEA crib arrived on Friday, and AH owned that bitch like he was Michael Phelps and the crib was a pool.  The entire process took all of 30 minutes, most of which was taken up by AH documenting every little moment on my camera.  Behold, the triumph, the tragedy, the assembly:

The box arrives; the challenge is issued.

"Instructions? We don't need no stinkin' instructions!"

Perhaps if the directions had been followed, these helpless 

creatures could have avoided this fate.

Punishment is swift and just.

In my sorrow and shame, I hide behind the baby poster.

Then things get back on track.  You can tell by seriousface.

Look, I was allowed to screw in one bolt!  Yay for equality!

The finished product.  I'm fairly certain that this crib will not cause death.

And here it is with the bedding provided by my maman.  At last, victory has been achieved!

     While of course AH and I enjoyed our time together assembling things for little FT, every properly sorted onesie, every burp cloth, every sanitized bottle is a reminder that she will be here sooner than we know.  And, realtalk guys, we are scared sh*tless.  But hey, nobody knows what they're doing with a newborn, right?  And besides, with a dad who can conquer IKEA furniture like it's nothing, how could this kid possibly go wrong?