At first I was going to call this post “nursery porn.” But for fear of what trolling interweb sociopaths might stumble upon this here blog when searching for other, less classy, subject matter, I didn't. You're welcome.
Alas, here are a few shots of baby E’s nursery. So far, I’m pretty sure he
loves it cannot see most of it because it is neither black nor white. On the other and, he’s only peed on the expensive direct-from-Etsy Turkish kilim rug twice. So at least we’ve got that going for us.
(Not pictured is the "incredibly comfortable" floor model armchair we bought heavily discounted from West Elm that has given me terrible sciatic pain. ProTip: breastfeeding is a serious occupational hazard.)
Back soon with more on this wild ride of parenthood. For now, I am delighted to confirm what all the doctors on the Internets say: six weeks is, in fact, the height of crazy-fussing-crying-time. HOW FUN FOR US. <smothers self with pillow>.
|Ho, hum. Just another mid-century modern dresser turned changing table. One day he'll appreciate my style. One day.|
|The fox says: put your poop stained baby clothes in me for I am the laundry basket.|
|Ezra claims there are only thousands of cats. One day he'll learn. THERE ARE MILLIONS.|
|This is a vintage map from, approximately, 1939. We think it's important that Ezra grow up believing in Italian Libya. Also that he be exposed to the lead paint that is surely chipping off this old window we used to frame it.|
|Here is the aforementioned rug. Also pictured: sheepskin purchased at a farmer's market. For that extra, earthy, animal farm smell that newborns love.|