Crib Stains and Tear Stains

This post was written the evening of June 24 and scheduled to be posted June 25, but, well, this happened instead.


Little A is less than two weeks away and our nursery is just starting to take shape. Why, yes, we ARE a family of procrastinators! But it was a process to even get to this point. We are utilizing our old (ancient) bedroom dressers for the kid’s dressers, meaning we couldn’t move them into the kid’s room until we picked out our new furniture and had said furniture delivered.

In the meantime, I found a crib online that appeared to match the color of the now nursery furniture, ordered that shit up and we were on our way. I knew the crib color wouldn’t match exact with the dresser, bench and bookshelf in the room – since none of those matched each other anyway – but it looked to be in the same color family so it would suffice.

Old furniture was moved on Thursday. Crib came Friday. Our new furniture came Saturday. Big A cleaned out the nursery on Sunday. Me, being all antsy in the pantsy, was dying to get the crib out of the garage (and away from the keg of Yuengling from the weekend full of shenanigans, but that’s another story) and unpacked so I could verify the color selection.

The crib made the journey. I held my breath as the tape was cut and the ties released. Big A flipped it open. I frowned. It was less “light 1980’s Oak” and more “rich 2000’s Cherry”. Not. The. Same. Not even close. I mentioned, several times, that it was Amazon and free return shipping was available.


Big A stood firm. He tried to tell me that it was fine. BUT IT WASN’T. Besides, he is color and design impaired. I didn’t like the fabric with it, it did not look at all like the color online, I was frustrated, I wanted the room done, I was so excited to have this KEY PIECE of the nursery and I was sitting there, on the floor, totally disappointed.

I tried to fight it. I did. I tried wicked hard. I closed my eyes and tried to find my happy place. I knew it was not the end of the world. I tried to be zen about it. But the lip quivered. And the breaths started to catch. Then the tears welled up.

And I cried. And laughed. And cried. And laughed.

I knew I was being ridiculous. But I couldn’t stop. Big A laughed at me. I laughed at me. My mascara ran. I told Big A to shut up. I couldn’t help it. I was crying over a crib.

He left the room. Probably to roll his eyes and find something to shut me up. He returned with sandpaper. He RUBBED IT ON THE CRIB.

I accused him of doing that so he wouldn’t have to send it back. Which was probably true, to a point.

But when he sanded it…it looked closer to the 1980’s Oak I desired. Somehow, it removed the red tone, distressed it enough and looked better. Not perfect, but better.

And he asked if I liked it. I said that I did, but it wasn’t enough to warrant the time that it would take. I mean, cribs have a lot of slats and pieces and whatevers. It would take a fair amount of sanding.

He said he would do it for me.


I didn’t care if it was only because then he wouldn’t have to repack it all and send it back or if it was just to shut me up, but he was going to take the time to sand the shit out of that crib.

So, of course, I started crying all over again. Harder. Still laughing. But crying harder. Fat, happy crocodile tears.

And then about an hour later I went to hug him and thank him and I started crying again. I CAN’T HELP IT.

Oh, hormones.



Big A spent several hours away from the hospital in order to actually PUT the crib together so @#%$! baby would have a place to sleep upon discharge. He sanded the crap out of a hidden piece of it, only to discover it actually wasn’t going to work. But I am so over it now. More important things to worry about and all.


The Surprise Ugly Cry – Part One

It can happen without warning. That’s why it’s a surprise. Duh.

Preface: I am an easy crier. I cry at everything. Always have. Movies, TV shows, a cute puppy, Hallmark commercials, when the lights go up and a theater performance or dance recital starts, whatever. I will never watch the movie Up again because I spent the first 15 minutes of it sobbing. I don’t care how good the rest of the movie was. NEVER. AGAIN. I have seen Shawshank Redemption countless times and even though I know a certain line by heart and I know it’s coming, I tear up. The end of Gran Torino made me cry for a week. YES, A WEEK. I woke up thinking about it more than once and started crying all over again. Won’t watch that one again either.

My secret is out. I cry at everything. BUT DON’T LET THAT FOOL YOU. It does not change my snarky streak. I am hardly a sap or a pushover. I just have overactive tear ducts.

I figured pregnancy would wind up being nine months of waterworks. Especially since there is also a deployment involved. And yet, I’ve done okay. A few bouts here and there over some worthwhile issues, but overall, not bad.

But there have been two significant moments of complete and utter unwarranted meltdowns. I will share one with you now, the other will make more sense after I finally publish a post that has been sitting in my draft pile since (no joke) November.

Without further ado:

Meltdown #1 – Thanks a lot, Dave Matthews

Preface (yes, another one) : I used to loathe DMB. LOATHE. In college when everyone swooned over Dave Matthews I was appalled by his popularity. I hated his music and could not understand why people were so obsessed. But at some point about six years ago, I finally got it. And Big A still won’t let me live it down. I don’t totally love it, he is not my favorite musician ever, but I can enjoy the music, appreciate the lyrics and the talents of the group members and I even learned how to play one of the songs on guitar.

I am also only watching American Idol because at some point, he is bound to jump out onstage and say “lololololol you’re voting for my kid, America!” Because Phillip Phillips is clearly a Dave Matthews lovechild and the secret is being withheld from the public until the show needs a ratings boost. If not, then you have to wonder if Dave Matthews ever watches the show and then mentally sifts through all the women he slept with in Georgia that may have spawned this kid. Because CLEARLY it has to be his offspring. The looks, the faces, the movement, the voice…it’s a DM clone if I ever $#^@! saw/heard one.


On a recent bright, sunny Friday I decided to take a break from my typical gangsta playlist and opted for some DMB. I just set the thing to shuffle and went to town. About six minutes from home and I was attacked. A song I had heard a hundred times sent me into the UGLY CRY in my car.

This started it:

Oh, and when the kids are old enough
We’re gonna teach them to fly

Followed immediately with the final non-poignant dagger:

You and me together, we can do anything, baby

And the remaining three minutes of the song became a total disaster. In my foggy emotion filled head I was all, oh my god, we CAN do anything. We CAN teach the kid to fly. We are awesomesauce mother@$%^#$^s and everything in life is going to be INCREDIBLE. And my heart filled with love and pride even though I know none of that shit was remotely true. I KNEW IT WASN’T TRUE, BUT DANG NABBIT I WANTED TO BELIEVE IN THAT MOMENT. The lyrics aren’t even all that deep. IT DIDN’T MATTER. I was in it to win it and I believed. I BELIEVED.

And I mean I was truly a serious sobbing mess, in every sense. My cardigan sleeves were soaked with tears and thank you for giant sunglasses because all of my neighbors were outside when I pulled into the driveway.

At some point in the middle of the song I started laughing at the ridiculousness of myself but then the kids line repeated and I lost my shiznit again. THIS WAS AN UNFAIR SURPRISE ATTACK. I was just trying to enjoy my 15-minute sunny happy Friday commute. WHY YOU GOTTA HATE, DMB?!

The Ugly Cry. It can happen anytime, anywhere. WATCH  YOUR BACK. And bring Kleenex.

She could make the Ugly Cry look good.