Woolgatherer readers – for some do exist – may wonder why there has been yet another lengthy silence from me on diverse matters of culture, politics and nonsense. The answer, I’m afraid, is boringly clear: decorating. And not just that: decorating for our new family member. Two and a half months to go, and while Liz pulls off the feat of simultaneously blooming and collapsing in a knackered heap, I’m coated with paint and, like all good workmen, blaming my tools.
Decorating a baby’s room has none of the sentimental glow that one might expect from watching too many films of the type that you don’t really watch but secretly do. It is exactly the same as any other room – there are rollers, skirting boards, rolls of masking tape, endless visits to B & Q – with the added inconvenience of trying to do right by t’ bairn. An extra coat is added so that his/her predicted range of unidentifiable splatterings can be sponged off the walls. And Liz is banned from helping out, on account of some dubious principle that pregnant women shouldn’t be exposed to paint fumes.
Anyway, now it’s done and we’ve ordered the new carpet (one that is actually possible to clean with bleach; we’re not doing this by halves), I have finally begun to feel like something is changing. Oh, I’ve been smiling at adorable babies on the bus for a couple of months now, and hearing the little one’s heart has already caused mine to do the required leaping at the hospital. But now that the room is there – empty, expectant – it finally dawns on me that someone will be arriving soon; and they’re going to be, well, staying.
Am I ready? No, of course not. Am I excited? Just a bit. Bring it on, I say.
Decorating a baby’s room has none of the sentimental glow that one might expect from watching too many films of the type that you don’t really watch but secretly do. It is exactly the same as any other room – there are rollers, skirting boards, rolls of masking tape, endless visits to B & Q – with the added inconvenience of trying to do right by t’ bairn. An extra coat is added so that his/her predicted range of unidentifiable splatterings can be sponged off the walls. And Liz is banned from helping out, on account of some dubious principle that pregnant women shouldn’t be exposed to paint fumes.
Anyway, now it’s done and we’ve ordered the new carpet (one that is actually possible to clean with bleach; we’re not doing this by halves), I have finally begun to feel like something is changing. Oh, I’ve been smiling at adorable babies on the bus for a couple of months now, and hearing the little one’s heart has already caused mine to do the required leaping at the hospital. But now that the room is there – empty, expectant – it finally dawns on me that someone will be arriving soon; and they’re going to be, well, staying.
Am I ready? No, of course not. Am I excited? Just a bit. Bring it on, I say.
0 comments:
Post a Comment