You know that Baby Shower game, the one where everyone is given a clothes pin or a safety pin to wear, and if you say the "B-word," you lose your pin? And at the end, whoever has collected the most pins--ostensibly at the cost of other guests, who likely don't want to play the game in the first place--wins a prize. Yeah, I think I'm going to start playing that game. With myself. At home.
I am trying, I really am. But I can't seem to talk or think about anything other than the B-word. Or more specifically, the stuff that goes with (or should go with) the B-word.
Before actually getting pregnant, I remember thinking, 'Ugh, too much stuff for babies these days. We'll totally keep it simple. They're small creatures, after all. They can't really need that much.' And to be fair, I don't think that everything we consider "necessities" are truly necessities. However, this mama wants all the standard "must haves." I want convenience, I want things that pull double duty...I'll take whatever can soften the blow (for both me, Hubs, and Little Nugget).
So I'm pouring over reviews, safety reports, polling friends and family (thank you much for obliging, sweet peeps...#TribalKnowledgeFTW), and comparing prices and products across retailers. And if I'm honest, I know perfectly well that this is my futile, Type A way of coping with the fact that this is only aspect of this journey that I have any hope of controlling.
I am about to get schooled right good in leaning on the Lord, letting things go, and learning how to cry on the inside when Mama needs to just keep on keeping on. I can't even begin to know just how massive this all is, but I can imagine, and it's like whoa.
However, I wouldn't bypass it for anything. I have been stupid blessed to carry this kid, and I can't believe that God chose me to be M's wife and Little Nugget's mommy. Blows. My. Mind, ya'll.
Case in point: last night, I apologized to M for talking about all the baby things all the time for all the days. Much like when we were planning the wedding, I know, fully, that I am failing at the "make time to talk about other things" approach (which I absolutely believe is good advice). His response? It's OK. He knows how I am, and he knows this is the best way for me to prepare. And he appreciates it.
Dude appreciates my crazy. I can't even.
So while I am beyond grateful for that man's sweet, sweet grace, I may or may not start sporting clothes pins around the house. And if I win, I get donut cake.