So the Sperminator put the crib together last night. The crib that was a bed that was a crib. Which apparently is a great money saver, because its convertible, but is also a major pain in the ass, because it’s convertible. I think the husband was about to throw in the baby blanket (you know, instead of the towel) and just go drop another $700 on a new crib, but decided to keep going because, well, I was holding a power drill to his skull. And the only place to store the double-bed is on top of a flaming bonfire.
So anyway, now the crib is put together and everyone can go on living (I’ve been nagging at him to assemble the crib for weeks). But now it’s been built with ANGER, and I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to build shit like that with this thing called love.
So now the crib is cursed, held together with negative vibes, and the baby to eventually call it home will never ever sleep on account of it. She was probably doomed to be a poor sleeper anyway (Max didn’t sleep for 10 months, which I’m reminded of every time I look at the crib because it has teeth marks on the side where he tried to chew his way out, Shawshank Redemption style). And now she’s certain to keep us all awake forever. Because her loving daddy built her crib like he was building his own coffin.
Fuck. I may as well hang a picture of Shel Silverstein above her bed and be done with it.