Just get to work, and none of your lip
The crib had sat in the nursery for two weeks.
In a box.
Against the wall.
Doing what cribs are designed to do when there's not a baby in them - nothing.
It was August, after all. The baby wasn't due till Christmas. I had plenty of time to put it together. I mean, it wasn't like ...
"When are you going to put up the crib?" My wife asked in a way that really wasn't a question.
"Whenever I get around to it," I said, although I should have known better.
"We don't have anything to put in it yet."
"Don't you want it to be ready for the baby?"
Hmmm. Let's see, August to Christmas, I thought, doing some quick math when I should have done myself a favor and not thought at all. That's five months and, with roughly four weeks in a month, that gives me 20 weekends to get the crib up.
"Of course I do, honey, but there's a game on."
When your wife enters the third trimester of pregnancy, her body releases a hormone called "nestrogen," which, 1) gives her the uncontrollable urge to clean things that aren't dirty, and 2) renders your wife unable to understand the concept of "no."
"There's always a game on," she said.
As stupid as men seem to be when confronted by the alien thought process of women, we can learn from our mistakes.
"You're absolutely right," I said. "I'll put up the crib right now."
One of the minor benefits of fatherhood is the fact that everything your kid has comes in pieces you get to assemble using things like hammers and power tools.
I grabbed a hammer, electric screwdriver, bits, level and, as I walked through the kitchen, I grabbed something all male Offutts before me grabbed when they were going to assemble anything - a beer.
"What are you doing?"
Much like a mother's use of your middle name, "what are you doing" coming from your wife is never good for you.
"Uh, I'm going to put the crib together."
"Not while drinking a beer, you're not."
I smiled.
"But, honey," I said with an air of smugness that is rarely healthy. "This isn't a beer. It's a fake beer. See," I pointed at the label. "It even says 'non-alcoholic' on the label."
"It also says .5 percent alcohol," she said. "Would you want me to drink one?"
"No, you're pregnant."
She smiled, and much like asking a question that wasn't a question, she smiled in a way that wasn't a smile.
I didn't tell her I'd have to drink 10 of these non-beers to equal drinking one real beer.
I didn't tell her I only had four non-beers in the fridge.
I just smiled back, put the fake beer back in the fridge and had the crib together in 15 minutes.
"It looks great," she said. "Do you think the baby's got enough stuff?"
I looked around the room, eyeballing a baby swing, playpen, full toy box, bookshelf lined with Seuss and Sendak and Baum, heirloom rocking chair, bassinet, a closet full of clothes, diapers and wipes, and a rocking horse the baby won't be able to ride for a year.
Then I tried to compose a list of things our Cro-Magnon ancestors probably had for their infants. I came up with breast milk and fur.
"Yeah," I said. "I think it's got enough.
