My Forceful Valentine

Yesterday was the 16th Valentine's Day Jason and I have spent together. Sixteenth. 

Shortly before our first Valentine's Day together, on our very first date, this happened:

You can read the full story behind this newspaper clipping here. Highly recommended reading, especially if you've never dug that far back (2005!) into my blog archives. I would love to say oh, isn't it funny how much I relied on CAPS LOCK and run-on sentences for humor back then, but that would probably spark some kind of existential "LOOK AT YOUR LIFE. LOOK AT YOUR CHOICES."-type crisis that I've been yammering on for over nine years and have still not managed to grow as a writer in the slightest, and it's only 11 am and thus too early to start drinking and hurling glasses at walls because I CAN'T QUIT YOU CAPS-LOOOOOOOOCCCCCKKKK.

Short version, though, for anybody who ain't got time for that: On our first date (that I did not realize was a date), Jason suggested we try to see the newly re-released version of the original Star Wars, even though he knew full well it would be sold out. (Thus "forcing" us to buy tickets for the following weekend, thus ensuring a second date, because that boy was smart.) On our way out of the theater we were randomly interviewed by a reporter about the sold-out showings and Star Wars mania in general. We cracked stupid jokes that sounded even stupider when printed in the paper, but the reporter asked if we were dating and I said "no" and Jason said "bwah?" and I said "ohhhhh." Then we made out in his car and lived happily ever after.

Anyway. We used to keep that newspaper clipping in a frame, but it was starting to yellow and fade so badly that I put it away at some point. I'd completely forgotten about this little bit of ephemera until yesterday. Jason had it reprinted on a Valentine's card for me:

Sixteen Valentine's Days and counting, and that boy still knows how to do them up right. 

(This card accompanied a small assortment of vintage L.E. Smith black amethyst vases, because OBVIOUSLY. I immediately freaked out and spent 40 minutes arranging flowers in them [BECAUSE AB CHAO] and then spent another 40 minutes on Google trying to figure out what decade they were from [1930s, possibly even late 1920s; good eye, husband!]. So all-in-all a pretty romantic evening by nobody's standards except mine.)

(I made Jason a card and bought him a book that includes a map of all the whorehouses in Phuket, Thailand, because I am also awesome and way romantic.)

In Which I Spend an Awful Lot of Time Talking About Dishes

Hey! Remember when Thanksgiving happened?

<insert Wayne's World flashback fingers and sound effects>

I do the same thing every year: I intend to ROCK OUT with a whole slew of Thanksgiving-related blog posts. I make such a big goddamn deal out of the holiday in real life that you'd think my blog would reflect that. Maybe take a yearly dive into recipe blogging and 500-word entries about napkins. Show you the real depths of my vintage glassware obsession. (It's deep, man. Like The Descent, only with more bowls.)

Instead, I completely freak out over EVERYTHING that needs to be done in preparation for Thanksgiving that my blog basically sits silent while its author runs around like a headless turkey hopped up on coffee brine in the distant background. 

Then I gorge myself on challah-bread stuffing and sleep for four days straight. 

IN OTHER WORDS, will y'all please indulge me and look at some pictures? You actually don't have to really look at them — I'll never know if you keep your Minecraft window open — just type a fake-appreciative mmm-hmmm in the comments and I'll be happy. 

First: Something old.

Or, well. A lot of somethings old.

I have cobbled together a somewhat bizaare collection of Depression glass and stuff from the 50s and 60s, which I mix in with more modern-looking white plates and serving pieces from Ikea. The black stuff is L.E. Smith black amethyst glass, and is actually the most gorgeous purple color when held up to the light.

Note that this hidden feature is only noticiable if you hold it up REALLY REALLY CLOSE to a lightbulb in an otherwise dark-ish room, which nobody in their right mind is going to do during a dinner party. 

Note that this will never, ever stop me from forcing my guests to hold their black coffee cups up to the light and squint while I fuss with the dimmer switch until everybody nods appreciatively about my weird-ass cups, because I am not in my right mind.

(I LOVE MY WEIRD-ASS CUPS.)

Next:

Ta-daaaa! Look at me, trying to be all grown-up and shit with my table. 

Twee little flower arrangements/party favors courtesy of Jason's aunt, who joined us this year and who shares my obsession with twee little flower arrangements. I was extra jazzed about these flowers because they justified my purchase of an entire set of those funky avocado trays. I mean, I have four and technically only used this one, but lay off me, it looked AWESOME.

(The trays are mid-century Kyes Moire Glaze. I also have a full-size round bar try in cream, and am currently lusting over several others in various colors that I have no specific use for, but HO HO HO that probably won't stop me.)

(I bought the little trays because I thought they were cute. I bought the big tray because it went with the little trays. I bought the ice bucket because it went with the big tray. I bought the hot toddy glasses because they came as a set with the ice bucket, and now I have to figure out what the hell goes in a hot toddy and start drinking them constantly and I THINK I NEED HELP, YOU GUYS.)

More flowers in mini mason jars, restaurant supply tea towels for napkins, and a shot of good whiskey in a tiny jelly jar.

(That last one is kind of a tradition around here. That we just made up. Just go with it.)

After I remembered to light the candles.

FINALLY, some appreciation. For the fire, mostly, but I'll take it.

Now, lest you think I've gone all crazy isn't-my-house-all-perfect design-blogger on you, allow me to show you what was happening all day just out of frame, in the living room:

Aaaaaand that's the squalor we all know and love. Bonus points for the visible tangle of wires. 

Okay, back to the grown-up section of the house, which gives me a sense of control in a world full of Legos:

Appetizer station.

I made you some cheese puffs, but we all ated them. Took about three minutes.

To be fair, we had help. 

YEP.

YEP YEP.

YEP YEP YEP.

A toast to our hipster Thanksgiving.

(And yes, the children were banished to eat in the kitchen. Off colored plastic Ikea plates from the circa last-time-we-went-there era. I did not take any pictures, prefering to forever remember the sounds of their collective whines over having to eat like, four bites of turkey and stuffing before being allowed to have the pie and ice cream IN MY HOLIDAY HEART.)

Appetizer station later morphed into the doodle station. 

And then a dessert station. Ezra ate the filling out of a full half of a pie.

(This is EXACTLY how I ate pumpkin pie for much of my life, so I can't really judge.) 

(Look! I was there! MY PRESENCE WAS DOCUMENTED!)

(I actually made it into a record-breaking TWO photos this year.)

After pie and coffee (LOOK AT THE CUPS. LOOK AT THE SAUCERS!), we had the traditional wrastling:

Feats of strength:

And possibly some impromptu streaking.

The next morning I ate stuffing straight out of the casserole dish for breakfast. 

Best Thanksgiving ever?

Best Thanksgiving ever.

See you at Christmas, mah pretties. Hopefully by then you'll be joined by some vintage Pyrex and some festive hot toddies. 

I Want To Belieeeeeeeeve

I have no idea how we got on the subject of Bloody Mary -- the ghosty sleepover dare, not the drink -- but somehow, we did. A little vodka may have been involved, but I am definitely sure that tomato juice and celery were not. 

Jason and I both grew up in very, very religious households, and because of this, had both achieved adulthood without ever -- EVER -- attempting the Bloody Mary game. We believed that just by THINKING about Satan or evil things, one was technically inviting demonic influence, or even full-on possession. That shit was real, man, in an incredibly literal sense, and the idea of actively baiting a ghost/demon/evil spirit like that was a genuinely terrifying prospect that neither of us would ever mess with. 

I have a vague memory of standing in a darkened bathroom after first hearing the story from my friends...and THINKING about maybe giving it a try, and the very second the idea popped into my head, a car drove down the street and a glimmer of the headlights flashed in the mirror and I freaked out and ran back to my room, hid under the covers and prayed for forgiveness and protection from my sinful wandering brain. 

That was farther than Jason ever got, however, and he admitted that he still couldn't bring himself to do it. Despite long since abandoning the fire-and-brimstone religion of our childhoods, and happily indulging in a steady TV/movie habit of supernatural horror -- we LOVE all that Paranormal Activity/American Horror Story/True Blood/Walking Dead garbage SO VERY HARD -- the Bloody Mary game was still something that genuinely freaked him out, because what if?

So obviously, because I am a complete asshole, I got the idea that we needed to confront that fear head on. Right then, right there. We were gonna walk into the nearest bathroom, hold hands and summon up that damned urban legend and finally put this ridiculous shared part of our childhoods completely behind us. Once and for all. Together. MOVE ON FROM FEAR. GROW WITH LOVE. ALSO I THINK THIS WILL BE SUPER FUN AND LATER YOU CAN BRAID MY HAIR.

At first -- and second, third, fourth, and so on -- Jason flat-out refused. No way. No way! He couldn't. He wouldn't. I made offers and promises and some very dirty bargains, but in the end I finally managed to convince him to follow me into the bathroom via a very persuasive argument of come on come on come on come on come on come on come on come on (breathes) come on come on come on etc. 

We stood in front the mirror with the lights off. "BLOODY MARY, BLOODY MARY, BLOODY MARY!" I called out confidently; Jason slightly less so. I waited a few seconds and then switched on the light. Nothing happened. We'd done it! Two thirty-something parents of three had gone and played a made-up game most people stop being scared of sometime in middle school, and we survived it without a single jump scare or coincidentally-timed lightbulb flicker.

Afterwards, I was gleeful and amped up -- I felt invincible, free, reckless and daring. Like the first time I voted for a Democrat, or dropped a casual f-bomb into a conversation. Jason was...well, he was headed towards the liquor cabinet for another drink.

I followed him, giggling stupidly and trying to think of any other similar games we could play. Let's have a seance! Order a ouija board! Is The Exorcist on Netflix? Blair Witch? Candyman? ZOMG ADRENALINE OF THE FORBIDDEN.

Jason opened the cabinet. And then screamed and jumped backwards.

I remember screaming too, but I don't remember hitting the floor. But there I was, cowering behind the dining table and flat on my stomach with my arms covering my head, while Jason laughed and laughed and laughed...until he was on the floor too, because bitch, you TOTALLY had that one coming. 

Official Post-Valentine's Day Recap ExtravaganzSQUIRREL!

I had a really nice Valentine's Day, thank you for not asking, but allowing me to pretend that you did. We're all organic and conversational up in this bitch!

For the first time in years, I was thoroughly pleased with my own gift-and-card-related offerings for Jason: 

Geeky Han-and-Leia bracelets from Spiffing Jewelry.

Super-highly-mature card from Wit and Whistle.

Usually I get completely out-gifted by my thoughtful, creative husband while I'm like: Here's a sweater? It's red? I bought you some chocolates but I ated them? 

Not that Jason did too shabbily himself, or anything. But he's an established pro at Valentine's Day -- gifts! flowers! candy! pampering! home-cooked gourmet meals and champagne! -- so I'm usually just happy to not suck too badly at it. 

Since the babysitter works on Tuesdays, we played hooky had a lunch date together at a restaurant nearby, a place we've gone several times with ALL OF THE CHILDREN in tow, and the hostess gave us a suspicious side-eye when she sat us, like "aren't you the ones wot show up with all them kids usually? where's your baby? oh dear God, did you leave him in the car?"

Then we both went to the Valentine's Day party at Noah's school, which thrilled him to no end, because NOW I CAN SHOW YOU OUR MEALWORM FARM, MOMMY. 

OH WOW, BUDDY, THAT'S SO COOL.

(Shudders.)

After that, we came home and basically counted the hours until bedtime, so we could enjoy a fancy grown-up dinner in peace. (And you know, rrrrroooomance.) We were almost home free by 7:30, because everyone was already acting so tired, so I corralled the boys upstairs and oh yeah, that's when the giant fucking squirrel got inside the house and holed up in the living room for awhile.

WAIT WHAT. 

I was rocking Ike to sleep when I heard Jason yelling -- and I mean YELLING -- a string of oh my Gods! and Ceiba! Ceiba! Ceeeeeeiiiiiiiibas!

I could tell he was trying really hard not to let a string of f-bombs loose too (FUHcrap! WHATTHEFUHHHreak!), what with the children still being awake and busy brushing their teeth, and I tried to figure out what in the hell he caught Ceiba doing that would warrant such an outburst -- actively taking a crap on the couch? Climbing in the fridge and helping herself to our creme brulee? Sneaking a cigarette? Doing DRUGS? WHAT?

I was completely stuck in that I Must Remain Hushed And Zen Despite All Hell Apparently Breaking Loose Downstairs spot, since Ike was alllllmost asleep and if I dared raise my voice to find out what was going on, I knew he'd jerk fully awake and be all, "Welp, that took the edge off! Let's party!" for the next five hours. So I kept my mouth shut and assumed that whatever it was, it had to be something Jason could handle. Plus, I still feel like he owes me a little bit for daring to be on a business trip right at the exact moment the oven decided to catch on goddamn fire. 

Jason appeared at the nursery door about 15 minutes later. He looked like he could use a drink or seven.

"We are never," he said quietly, so not to startle the baby, "EVER. Leaving trash out on the back deck again."

My mind flashed back to the morning of the shredded, scattered trash bag. Really? All that was over the dog getting into the trash? There couldn't possibly have been anything grosser in it than all the Disgusting Paper Towels of Horkgate Grossness that I had to clean up, unless, oh God, did Ceiba eat something dangerous? Is she...wait, no.

"I put the trash inside the recycling bin," I protested. It was a small bin, without a lid, but still too high for Ceiba to get into. "How did she get..."

"Not Ceiba," he said. "I picked up the bag and brought it inside so I could take it out front to the curb. And...a squirrel jumped out of it."

Not just any squirrel, apparently, but the biggest, fattest squirrel Jason had ever seen -- easily as big as our dumb little dog -- who had decided to take up permanent residence inside our trash bag. It took a flying leap out of a hole in the bag somewhere in the kitchen and took off into the house, eventually settling behind a bookcase in the living room. Ceiba (being dumb, little) ran after it, even though the thing could have probably bitten her head off, honey-badger style.

While I stayed upstairs, obliviously rocking Ike to dreamland, an epic struggle of Man, Squirrel, Pursedog and Broom had been going on without me. 

"I locked Ceiba in the bathroom and eventually chased it out the door with a broom," he informed me. "So it's gone now."

"Did you take a picture of it?" I asked, while shaking with silent, gasping laughter, as I am both 1) experienced when it comes to harmless yet spastic wildlife trapped in the house, and 2) an asshole.

No, he did not. I know! I'm disappointed too. That would have made it officially the best Valentine's Day ever. But I guess you'll just have to take my word for it that it was at least a pretty close second. 

The Five

Shh, shh. Let's not talk about any further unpleasantness. Let's all just cross our fingers and hope that things continue in their current state, which is fine. And dead. As in, the scalp in question is fine, and all the unpleasantness that we are NOT TALKING ABOUT are dead. I think, should this blogging thing not work out, that I may have found my calling as an Obsessive Scalp Comber. I am ruthless and thorough. I am the Nit Whisperer. I am...talking about the thing I JUST SAID I didn't want to talk about anymore. 

Let's change the subject. 

Lookit! Pitchers!

BlogHer Part One But Not Really

God, isn't BlogHer just the worst? First, we all bore our readers with ZOMG I'M GOING TO BLOGHER posts. Then we go to BlogHer and don't post anything because we're so busy and crazy or can't get on the hotel wifi or are basically, just drunk as shit the whole time. 

Then we come home and don't post anything because we're so tired out from BlogHer. Or if we do post anything, it's all, "ZOMG I'M SO TIRED FROM BLOGHER." And then followed by some random crappy photos we took with our phone that don't make any sense because you totally had to be there and stuff.

Ugh. I hate when bloggers do that.

***

This is a photo I took of my roommate taking a photo of the leftover room service cart full of half-eaten breakfast items that we pushed in of Jason Mayo and TwoBusy's room across the hall from ours. Because. I don't know. WE HAD TO.

The morning after Sparklecorn. Still covered in eye makeup, glitter, unicorn tattoos and a vague sense that I embarassed myself and future generations in a wide variety of ways, the least of which was climbing on a table and taking a bite of the four-foot-tall unicorn cake's ass. 

And I have absolutely no explanation for this one, except that it is one of like, 17 different blurry versions that I took. So clearly, whatever is happening here was important at the time.

*** 

So basically, nine-plus weeks of newborn-baby-related sleep deprivation (on top of however many weeks of pregnancy-related sleep deprivation), followed by two nights in a row of partying until 2:30 am local time (AKA 5:30 am your time, you stupid dumbass), all squished together with two cross-country flights in the span of 48 hours, then back home to the non-sleeping-through-the-night baby and minus any naps....carry the one....divide by the square root of the weight of all the swag you abandoned in your hotel room to make room for your electric breast pump...and...

Yeah. I'm pretty beat. I can kinda see through space and time right now. 

***

ALSO!

It fell out on Friday. Jason managed to stall on the tooth fairy thing until I got home so I could do it, which, in retrospect was not all that's cracked up to be, once you c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y slide your arm under the pillow and feel around for this tiny, practically hollow tooth and c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y remove it and then c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y put a ridiculous amount of hard-earned cash in its place...only to suddenly get really, REALLY grossed out by the nub of a tooth you're now holding in your hand that your husband is all, "DON'T THROW IT OUT, WE NEED TO SAVE THAT" and you then look around you at your life and realize that holy shit, there are like, 200 of these stupid things that are going to fall out and require you to touch them and then pay money for the privilege of doing so in your future. 

But still. I was awfully sorry to miss this one. 

(NOTE: Usually, this is the sort of photo I would crop to make sure none of y'all saw the giant bag of trash hanging out in the recyling bin in the back corner there, but since this was taken on Jason's watch I feel okay leaving in there. Even though I have been home since Saturday night and it is, in fact, still there. LAY OFF ME I'M TIRED.)

(NOTE NOTE: Jason took them both for haircuts while I was away, thus ending our summer of ragamuffin-where-is-that-child's-MOTHER-style chic.)

(NOTE NOTE NOTE: Today is our 13th wedding anniversary. Here, sweetie, I got you some kids.)

Happy Happy

One...

Two...

Three...

Happy birthday, Jason! I would say you've done pretty good so far. Excellent life's work, these three. 

So make a wish! But not for sleep. Because...no. 

Swing Low, Sweet Technomuhlogical Chariot

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. 

Praise You Like I Should Even Though It's Like, Soooo Embarrassing

(SPOILER ALERT: No baby yet.)

You know, I've been making fun of my husband a lot around here. And honestly, he probably only deserves...eh, let's say about a third of it. (THE SWING. THE SWINNNNNNGGGGGG.)

The rest is a combination of good-natured ribbing and the natural reaction to seeing your partner up and relatively spry and able to function like a normal human being while you loll around on the couch, grunting like a beached whale, wishing you had the ability to whip other people into a nesting-like frenzy using only the power of your MIND, like, seriously? Would it kill you to install the car seat already? I know you SAY it can wait until the baby is born and you'll do it on the way to pick us up at the hospital but I WOULD FEEL BETTER IF I COULD SEE IT DONE AHEAD OF TIME SO THAT I MAY FUSS AT AND CRITICIZE YOUR ABILITIES IN THE PRIVACY OF OUR OWN DRIVEWAY.

But really, Jason has been so, so great. Flowers for no reason. A constantly replenished stash of my favorite bath thingies from Lush. Back rubs and belly kisses and moving heaven and earth to make sure he never misses a karate class or swimming lesson with the boys because the man just freaking adores his kids and being a dad. He has brought me every possible food item I have craved, from boxed chocolates to ice cream to Indian food to burritos to matzo ball soup to deli pickles to this one fancy kind of imported Italian olive that's really hard to find but he tracked it down and bought two giant jars of them. He's made homemade chocolate pudding and tray after tray of brownies and one time I was like, "mmmm risotto" and BAM, he was up and making me some risotto. 

He's put on more weight than I have, since I always puked up a significant portion of all those delicious, high-fat cravings, and he had no such difficulty. 

And I don't even know where to begin with everything he did for me when...you know. The stuff with my dad. That whole...thing. When my dad died. 

(Hellooooo mental compartmentalization! Welcome to Topics Amy Hasn't Really Been Dealing With For Awhile That Occasionally Are Like, OH YEAH, FUCK, STILL HURTS LIKE ALL HELL, MOVING ON.)

And! Here's the other thing: Back in January, Jason slipped while carrying Ezra down the stairs. He did that thing you do, when you have no choice but to protect the child in your arms at all costs, and took the full brunt of the fall, smack dab BAM, right in his lower back. 

It never healed, and after MONTHS of getting waved off by various doctors, he got an MRI. Which revealed a pretty significant injury to a couple discs in his back. His doctor advised surgery. Jason said no, he can't have the surgery yet, because I am pregnant and need him. And then I'm going to have a baby and I will need him. So no three-week-recovery period is going to work, just yet. He's been getting by with physical therapy and medications, until the time comes when he decides that I won't need him quite so much. 

(For the record, I told him to have the surgery if he felt he needed it, because clearly he's been in a terrible amount of pain and that sucks and I will ABSOLUTELY SURVIVE. But he prefers to wait and try the less-invasive measures first anyway. Which are working pretty well! As evidenced by his ability to get up in the attic and LOOK FOR MISSING SWING PARTS AT LEAST IN THE HYPOTHETICAL SENSE.)

In other words, my husband is deserving of all kinds of hyperbolic adjectives. But he'd rather me mostly post "funny" stuff about how he's deliberately annoying the crap out of me re: his refusal to get sucked into my wormhole of nesting insanity than get all goopy and embarrassing about him on the Internet.

(Though he DID install all those nice closet organizers. SAINT! HEAVEN-SENT! AMAZING! A GOD AMONG MEN!)

I ordered myself a pair of necklaces a few months ago (during a previously-mentioned Emotional Etsy Rampage). I wanted something with the kids' initials on it, and decided to go with this one from Soul Peaces, with three tiny stars and a crescent moon. And then...I splurged and bought a second version, with just one star, because there are four people I wanted represented. Who deserved to be represented, no matter what other manner of nonsense you may have read about them on the Internet. 

From top, left to right, the stars are stamped J for Jason, N for Noah, E for Ezra and HA HA YEAH RIGHT LIKE YOU'RE GETTING THAT OUT OF ME THAT EASY. 

PS. My very first post is up at Mamadojo, the new companion/trilogy blog-thing to Mamapop and Moxiebird! 

Swing Low Sweet Crazy Person

AMY: Thanks for getting the baby swing down from the attic...

JASON: No problem.

AMY: *under breath* ...three freaking months after I originally asked you to but whatever.

JASON: What?

AMY: Nothing!

AMY: *busies herself with refastening freshly-washed cover to baby swing*

AMY: *tries to attach swing seat to swing frame, makes horrible discovery*

AMY: THE SWING IS MISSING A PART!

JASON: What?

AMY: MISSING! A PART! THIS WON'T ATTACH! THE LITTLE THINGS THAT GO ON THE OTHER THING AND KIND OF...POP? OUT? THOSE THINGS! OR WAS IT A SCREW? EITHER WAY! THERE IS SOME ESSENTIAL MISSING THING!

JASON: *looks* Yeah, you're right. I'll look up in the attic again, I guess.

AMY: Okay.

AMY: *waits*

AMY: ...

AMY: *waits more*

JASON: What? 

AMY: OH MY FUCKING GOD.

(PS. NO BABY YET.)

(PPS. OR WORKING SWING.)