Sunday was one of those perfect days that you can't plan, but just sort of fall into place without effort, further adding to its awesomeness.
Jerry and I woke up strangely early, spent the morning playing with Toby, got ready and were out the door by the time we usually start to rub the sleep from our eyes on weekends. We spontaneously decided to spend the day shopping for a whole bunch of necessities (like toilet paper), running errands we had been putting off (like buying toilet paper), and rewarded ourselves with lunch someone else prepared. In between, we stopped at every furniture store in the area looking for a rocker for the nursery in hopes of avoiding what I discovered to be outrageous shipping costs. Like $350 to deliver one chair that costs $300. Seriously.
As I had suspected, the salesmen looked at me like I had requested an S&M black leather sex chair with metal studs that hangs from the ceiling. An upholstered rocker/glider? That's not a recliner? In something other than brown or black? IMPOSSIBLE! IT DOESN'T EXIST.
Then, inevitably, they walked us through their respective cavernous stores and gave a Vanna White arm sweep toward the lousy selection of overpriced, oversized gliders that would look out of place anywhere other than a nursing home common area.
Granted, when Jerry and I each sat down in one just to appease the first sales guy, I would be lying if I said it wasn't one of the most ridiculously comfortable chairs I've ever had the pleasure of resting my second set of cheeks in. When tie guy finally got the hint to leave us alone, Jerry and I actually considered placing the ugly contraption in our home.
Then, after browsing through the children's furniture section just for fun, we came back to see an old couple dressed as if it was the middle of winter, sitting in the exact chairs Jerry and I had just been in, nodding excitedly.
"Yeah, we just can't," I said.
"Agreed," Jerry said.
And that settled it.
After stocking up on a ridiculous amount of TP -- the mammoth, can't-believe-it-even-fits-in-the-holster jumbo rolls -- having a fantastic lunch, talking to every stranger who stopped to admire my belly and laughing at the lack of baby-friendly furniture in our area, we finally found it. The Chair.
It was an expensive baby boutique I had forgotten about. Everything is custom designed and made-to-order, but at the time, I didn't let the minute detail of price bother me. I had found The Chair. The perfect nursery chair with a variety of color and pattern swatches to choose from, including what the fabric gurus apparently refer to as 24/7 fabric that is durable enough for everyday use and can be cleaned with soap and water. It was as if God himself had led us to this chair. Jerry and I high-fived to celebrate and took a few swatches home to mull it over with our financial backer -- Jer's mom.
I capped off the night with a lengthy 10-hour work shift, but even though I was ready to curl up on the couch in the women's bathroom and hibernate, the good-vibes of the day carried me through.
Then there was Monday. The antithesis of Sunday. A day I wish I could've fast-forwarded through and avoided all of the things that went wrong. Like the breeze blowing through our house in a northeast direction instead of southwest.
Maybe it was lack of sleep. Maybe it was because it finally dawned on me that if we get The Chair, it means we won't be able to afford other things in the nursery. Like The Crib. Or maybe it was the fact that none of my underwear fits anymore.
Either way, everything pissed me off. Everything.
By the time Jerry got home from work that afternoon, I was a raging mess. He took the brunt of my fury as I stomped through the house complaining about anything and everything. That magazine? It's been sitting on the coffee table for days. WHY ISN'T IT WITH ALL THE OTHER MAGAZINES IN THE BATHROOM? And my hair? HAVE YOU SEEN MY HAIR? If I could find anything in this damn house like one of the 47 pairs of scissors we own, I would CHOP IT OFF. ALL OF IT.
It was a slow and steady build of instability. It started with me flipping out on a customer service representative over shipping costs that were more than the price of the actual item. Then it was the fact that I couldn't find one pair of underwear that fit comfortably over my growing rear end, not to mention my bras that are straining to function. Then the battery-operated clock in the vanity started to die. And my hair wouldn't stay up in my clip right. And the tears started to fall somewhere around the time I realized I have four more months of this pregnancy and none of my clothes will fit by then.
And Jerry did the exact wrong thing by standing in the doorway and staring at me with his mouth hanging open, probably in confused disbelief that this insane woman was someone he not only entered into a marriage with, but willingly.
So I yelled at him for being insensitive, told him to stop staring at me and shut the door in his face.
Later he joked that he came home to Hurricane Kelly and as he walked toward the eye of the storm, I chucked cows and tractors at his head. Not too far from the truth, actually.
The only thing that snapped me back into some semblance of reality was that I had to go to work -- mascara-stained eye smudges and all. My mom talked some sense into me during my commute by using phrases like, "It's okay" and "I understand." And all I could think was that I hope I inherited that gene when it comes to dealing with my own daughter.
A few minutes later, I was joking with my boss about my complete meltdown. Thankfully, she has a 2-year-old son at home and remembers the inexplicable outbursts that occasionally accompany pregnancy.
And before long, I was calling Jerry to apologize for chucking tractors at his head.
"Remember Sunday?" I asked.
"Sunday was nice."
"Much better than Monday."