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We arrive at the store and I follow Nova inside. She heads straight for the cribs.
“I don’t want to do gray,” she tells me. “That’d be too matchy-matchy with the walls.”
She walks around, appraising them all. She makes another round and finally stops in front of one.
“What do you think?” she asks.
The crib is what I would describe as modern, or maybe it’s contemporary, fuck if I know. It’s white with clean lines and angled feet on the bottom.
“I like it.”
“Do you like it? Or love it?”
“If you love it then I love it. It’s cool. This isn’t really my forte.” I motion to all the baby stuff around us. “So go with your gut.”
She laughs. “But I want you to love it too.”
“I do,” I assure her.
“Okay, this crib. We’ll get a matching changing table, let’s go look at the bedding.,” she rambles.
I let her drag me to another part of the store and we begin going through all the bedding.
I give little “mhmms” and “ehs” now
and then.
Finally, she settles on one with a gray and white simple design.
Nova’s never been a big shopper, but when it comes to baby stuff, apparently she’s a fiend. We’ve held off, waiting to find out the gender, and now the beast has been unleashed.
She tosses the sheets she’s picked into the cart I’m pushing and then we move on to blankets and then clothes.
The cart is overflowing by the time she’s done.
God help me.
We check out and the staff helps us load the furniture, including a white rocker she picks at the last minute.
I want to argue white’s going to get really fucking dirty with a kid, but I decide to keep my mouth shut.
We stop at the hardware store on the way home and Nova picks out her paints, careful to get ones which are safe for pregnant women.
When we get home I’m tasked with carrying everything into the apartment while she immediately gets to down painting.
It takes me six trips to get everything and I have to con a neighbor into helping me carry the heavy items.
Once it’s done I collapse on the couch and drape my arm over my eyes—telling the world I’m closed for fucking business at the moment.
I’m about to doze off when Nova screams.
I sit straight up. “What? What’s wrong?”
“The baby kicked! Like a big kick. I think you can feel it.” She comes running toward me, a slight waddle altering her steps. She grabs my hand and presses it to her stomach. “Just wait,” she whispers, like a raised voice might cause the baby not to kick.
I hold my breath, like that might make a difference too, and wait.
A moment later I feel it.
