When I hung up the letter hooks in Nora’s bedroom, it started an addiction that could only be fed by adding more hooks. Blake hung some little brass hooks in my craft closet for me that are now holding gift bags, and I ordered three more hooks from Restorers (through Amazon) for Nora’s room.
I knew I wanted to hang her blessing dress and the gorgeous handmade blanket she got from her anonymous “secret grandma,” but that left one empty hook and a long narrow space in the middle. With Sarah’s help, I brainstormed an accessory holder.
Here’s the result:
I’m really happy with how it turned out, and the whole thing took less than two hours to make. Endless variations are possible to suit your needs and tastes. Instructions and the materials I used are after the jump, if you’re interested.
Nora of mine,
When I hold you and look into your eyes, sometimes I feel a surge of confidence and empowerment. Sometimes I feel a debilitating sense of self-doubt and inadequacy. But every single time, I feel love unlike anything I have ever felt before. I’m pretty sure that that love means I will do everything in my power to take care of you.
We’ll be okay, baby.
For better or worse, the nursery is pretty much put together! It feels good to have that task done. The polka-dotted fabric bin on the lower shelf of the white table holds board books and tub books. You can see the Boppy pillow hanging out on the seat of Blake’s grandpa’s rocker.
The dresser is full of baby clothes and linens that have been washed with Dreft, folded and sorted by size, and put into labeled drawers. The IKEA frog is sitting in a Bumbo baby seat next to George and Martha and a sweet little baby sock sorting thingie I found at HomeGoods. I made the print over the dresser in my letterpress class–it features my favorite quote from Peter Pan.
The top two shelves of the bookcase are full of baby supplies, and the bottom shelf is picture books. The art is two pages from an advance copy of You Were Loved Before You Were Born, written by Eve Bunting and illustrated by Karen Barbour. The book is due out in January.
Under the window you can see the gift Marci got us–the first baby item Blake and I picked out together. Above the crib are the letter hooks I talked about here. Since I took these pictures, I got some big clear totes at Target to go under the crib: one for extra diapers, one for blankets, and one for stuffed animals. We’re still waiting for our Sophie bumper and crib skirt to arrive from Pottery Barn.
The light must have been a bit different for this photo, because the wall color here looks closer to how it looks in real life. Anyway, you can see we’ve been messing around with the toys on top of the bookcase and on the shelf above it. We swapped out the fancy (and arguably creepy-looking) dolls I had when I was younger for the Cabbage Patch Garden Fairies I adopted in college. And of course we had to dig out my Boo doll and press her belly a bunch of times. The soccer-playing Build-a-Bear was a gift to Blake from the girls he coached one year, and the other one is Olivia, who Blake gave me for our anniversary three years ago.
TA-DA! She’d better friggin’ love it.
I kind of can’t believe how much bigger my belly has gotten in the last three months. (for comparison purposes)
I’ve been working on painting our hand-me-down crib and dresser white to match the new side table for the baby’s room, and I wanted to get some knobs for the drawers that would tie everything together. I decided on some cut glass knobs from Anthropologie, and while I was there I couldn’t resist these letter hooks.
I am afraid buying decorative knobs might be addicting. Now I want to replace all the drawer pulls and doorknobs in our house.
The labor stories of other women are alternately hilarious, reassuring, and terrifying. Here are a few I’ve read lately:
Here’s what I know:
1) Women have been doing this for thousands of years. My body is made to do this.
2) I will be giving birth in a hospital, not at home with a midwife whose idea of an amenity is shaping the umbilical cord into a heart.
3) The epidural is my friend.
4) Blake and Sarah and my mom and dad got me through the end of the marathon. They can get me through this.
Until recently, my family owned a Scrabble game with light pink letter tiles. A special collector’s edition? No. You see, in the early 1980s, Scrabble was sold in a dark red fabric-covered box. The letter tiles were plain wood, just like always. One day I was doing whatever it is kids do to entertain themselves, when I felt a vague need to pee. Sure that this inconvenient urge would eventually just go away, I remained ensconced on the throne I had built by cushioning the Scrabble box with a decorative throw pillow. Perhaps you have already guessed that I eventually peed through the pillow and through the red box, transferring the dye from the box to the tiles WITH MY URINE. Gross, I know. Arguably grosser? The fact that my mom just washed the whole thing off and we played with that Scrabble game for years.
The problem in this instance (and, to be honest, throughout my entire life so far) was that I didn’t “listen to my body.” In fact, I HATE listening to my body. Even as an adult, I always wait too long before I give in and run to the bathroom. I don’t sleep. I drink Diet Coke instead of water. For some reason I feel the need to constantly assert the fact that I am in charge. My body is not the boss of me and I’ll do it ’cause I want to and not ’cause my body tells me to! Obviously this is very self-defeating behavior, but what can you do?
Well, my body is getting the last laugh. For the past several months, all I’ve done is listen to my body and try to anticipate and fulfill its every physical need. Why? Because now my body has the leverage it has always lacked: puke. Don’t get enough sleep? PUKE. Don’t eat enough? PUKE. Don’t eat the right thing? PUKE. Don’t eat at the right time? PUKE. Move too suddenly or in the wrong direction? PUKE. (Can you hear the maniacal laughter coming from the vicinity of my stomach?) Nothing says “I am not in charge of my own body” like a good round of vomit, especially when you hate throwing up as much as I do.
Say it with me: one more week. I’ve been in charge for 28 years–I guess I can listen to my body for one more week. I’ll even throw in six more months of above-average consideration.
But if you see a pleasantly pink-tinted Scrabble game at D.I., think twice before buying it.