Not long ago, my best friend and I picked out paint chips. Although this was nearly a month ago, we have not painted one iota of our house since then. While my friend has nearly impeccable taste, I fear that my laziness probably out does even her good taste. I have forgotten many of her best recommendations, and the tape holding each one to the wall is started to fall off. The kitchen will be the first victim, I fear. There are some truly horrendous shades combinations of blue and orange, which eventually we will come to a concensus upon, and then promptly paint in the most frightening color combination in existence. I'm sure of it. Which is, of course, why we have not yet painted the kitchen.
The real purpose behind picking paint colors was self indulgence. Here, I can indulge in my childish dreams of babies in the house, giggling and running, up and down the hallway. We indulged in pinks, and greens, and yellows. I will build my baby a little playhouse, perhaps from http://knockoffwood.blogspot.com/ . While this might be dreadfully, terribly sad, this dream is far bigger than even my wedding day could have been. I dreamed of a having a baby in my arms since the first time I read a gut-wrenching story of a premie baby who almost didn't make it from Reader's Digest when I was twelve years old. Is that weird? I don't care; I've waited until I am quite a respectable age. My own mother even implied, not long ago, that I was "old" for having babies. Come now! If bloody Jennifer Lopez can have TWINS at 38, then I can certainly have a baby. I'm not even 32!
So, blog world, I'm picking colors for the nursery. I'm not buying anything, not to worry. I wouldn't want to jinx my future eggs or anything.