Grandfather’s Nursery Requirements

So, one of the kids decided to have a baby, and now suddenly, one of the extra bedrooms in our house that has previously been used primarily as a junk room is undergoing a transformation into a nursery, or at least some place to stash the child when he comes to visit, since we’re assuming he’ll be sleeping 90% of the time until he gets interesting at about age two or so.  Things are being moved, things are being thrown out, things are being repurposed.  A crib will be bought.  And as the gay grandpa who has to physically make most of this transformation happen, I’ve discovered I have a few requirements of my own above and beyond what young Simon may need when he actually hatches.

My beautifully upholstered but incredibly uncomfortable 50’s chair stays.  The Boyfriend got me one of those goofy back massager things you plug in and sit on and tickle your back and neck via remote control, and I’ve discovered over the years that it works quite well in that particular chair.  After working all morning yesterday to clear space in that mess, I was able to access my chair and back massager for the first time in months, gratefully sank down into it, cranked that sucker on HI HEAT SUPER BLOW MY MIND BEAT UP MY TIRED ACHING BACK PLEASE and decided that this might be a nice place to sit and take care of myself at the same time I’m taking care of the baby.  Not to mention, his mom might actually enjoy using the massage options while nursing in there.

An MP3 player.  New Age Bullshit music to calm the baby, not to mention some rocking dance tunes when he needs a little cheering up.  This baby will quickly learn to sleep through anything, including the laundry room across the hall, the dogs barking hysterically every time someone rings the doorbell, and David Bowie and Moby and Madonna and Cher.

Our elliptical trainer stays in the room, because right now we have nowhere else to put it, and also to give me something to do while I’m waiting for Other Grandpa to change a dirty diaper, because I can handle pee but I’ve never heard anything good about baby poop except to avoid it at all times.

Stuffed animals and puzzles and books Everywhere.

Art.  And I’m not talking about those stupid posters you buy with cute animals on them specifically designed to coordinate with the baby crib sheets.  Real Art on all the walls.  No themes allowed.  Photographs, posters, paintings, and maybe a little thrift-store kitsch thrown in for good measure.

Little magic spaces tucked in anywhere and everywhere.  Gnomes and elves and pixies and fairies and turtles and pigs and pyramids.  Protection spells the likes of which have not been cast since the middle ages.

I think this is going to be a good thing.

This entry was posted in Art and Stuff, Lost In Kentucky, My fabulous life and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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