My parents bought us a new crib. I found one that has a small changing table attached. (I have 74 inches of space for baby furniture. Think small, people.) This is after insisting that they did not need to buy us anything. 15 minutes after, I think. I call my mom from Wal Mart upon discovery of this crib. (O and I frequent Wal Mart on Monday mornings. It’s grown on me. I have no melatonin left in my skin, but they have Lunchables really cheap and Lunchables are just as cool as ever.)
Then I went home and read the consumer reviews – which rave about the product, and MOAN about its assembly. So I attach a rider to this request I wasn’t going to make…”CanyougetmethiscribandwhenitcomescanDadassembleitforme?…”
My Dad whittles entire sea vessels out of his bare hands. Surely, this would be a small chore.
I mean, all this crib took was an allen wrench…and 1400 hours and HIS COMPLETE SANITY.
Friday, he drives crib in boxes to Williamsburg.
Attempts assembly for 3 hours.
Bashes his face against the wall.
Puts crib back in car and drives back to Virginia Beach.
In the comfort of his home, amidst the soothing salty air, he assembles crib.
Puts back in car, in one piece, Monday morning, drives back to Williamsburg.
(Do you see this next part coming?) Crib will not fit through doorway of room.
He partially disassembles the crib, moves it into the room and reassembles it.
He then leaves my home. Probably for forever.
Or until I call him to come convert it to a toddler bed…