Eight months ago, my only knowledge of “cribs” was that show on MTV.
But in the last few weeks I've learned more about cribs--not the kind celebrities throw parties in, but the kind babies throw up in--than I ever wanted to know.
Some of them are oval. Some of them are square. Some of them convert to toddler beds. They come with mobiles and canopies and a veritable smorgasbord of bells and whistles.
And ALL of them were obviously designed for people who reside in more than 350 square feet of living space.
But we finally managed to find one that fits in our apartment and Friday, on the eve of my 36th week of pregnancy, we set it up next to our bed.
I find myself staring dreamily at it every time I pass by. I can’t help but stop and imagine the little person who will soon sleep there. I thought I was the only one feeling all mushy about it, but over the weekend, I found Spiceboy standing next to the crib, one hand on the railing, a faraway look in his eye. Then he turned to me and smiled.
“We’re having a baby soon,” he said.
“We sure are,” I said. “You scared?”
“You excited?” I asked.
Then we took Betty out for a walk and held hands in the humid Manhattan morning, giddy with the possibilities of this thing called family