Swing Low, Sweet Technomuhlogical Chariot
June 08, 2011
Okay, blah, fine. Birth stories and hospital/breastfeeding drama are all well and good, but AMY! THE SWING! WHAT ABOUT THE SWING, AMY?
The swing was still in pieces on the day Ike was born, which was also coincidentally the day we discovered that indeed, Ike was easily comforted by swinging/swaying/rocking movements. Jason commented on this and I said NOTHING, though I did shoot him a DRAMATIC PRAIRIE DOG look. He got the point. "I'll fix the swing."
He went up in the attic but alas! The missing connector piece was nowhere to be found. He waited until the next day to confess this to me, via text message from the aisles of Target, where he was contemplating buying a new swing.
"WAIT WAIT Internet can help! Commenters offered to send part!" I texted back.
But it was too late. My husband -- who does not generally get too worked up or involved over baby gear* -- had spotted A Swing. The Swing. It rocks! Sways! Bounces! Simulates the ocean waves while offering a wide variety of white-noise options! It's oblong and minimalist and all kinds of SPACE-AGEY.
It's like somebody attached a cradle seat to an iPad and taught it to fry bacon.
Price tag be damned. Common sense could go fuck itself. There was no going back to our beat-up Craigslist cradle swing, JASON HAD SEEN THE MAMAROO.
I have to admit, Ike reeeeeally loves it, particularly the car ride setting, which is his particular flavor of baby-sleep-crack. I've started affectionately calling it Marvin.
So there you go. We have a swing, and nobody died, and Jason can't ever make fun of me for my overworked PayPal and Etsy accounts again, although he did ask me NOT to order a custom Marvin-matching blanket in a non-clashing green but fine, whatever, I already found the cutest lime-and-brown pacifier clip and HE NEVER SAID ANYTHING ABOUT MATCHING PACIFIER CLIPS.
*I sent Jason an email a few months back with links to four or five different padded playmat options, asking for his opinion about which one seemed best. I never heard back, and testily brought up the topic a couple days later like, HELLO, IMPORTANT PLAYMAT DECISIONS TO BE MADE HERE, and he stared at me for about five minutes, blinking. "I thought that was a joke**," he said.
**A slightly more hormonally unbalanced and/or less mature pregnant woman probably would have burst into tears at this point, shrieking something about how YOU DON'T KNOW ME AT ALL DO YOU? I WOULD NEVER JOKE ABOUT PLAYMATS. But I will have you know that I did not, but simply shrugged and said fine. And then ordered the most expensive option on the list. SO THERE.