My Pregnancy Is...

Getting home with the chair you've dreamed about sitting in for hours with your baby girl. Swivel, glide, recline. Only to sit down in it for the first time later that night, perplexed that there is no recliner bar. I look around frantically, he stands frozen. I reach for the foot-piece and see it closely bound to the body of the chair. "This isn't right" I say. "It's supposed to recline?" he says. And as the emphatic "Yes!" comes out of my mouth, the tears explode out of my eyes and I rush off to find the order receipt. Maybe I messed this up. Maybe they messed this up. Everything is messed up. He reminds me, patiently and quietly, that it'll all be fine; I tell him I want it to all be fine now. Sitting in a pile of receipts that are not the one, I feel helpless and disappointed and everything in between. 

We take one last visit to the nursery to look it over... on top, on the sides, on the back, and finally - finally - he lifts its heavy frame to inspect the bottom. There, in all its glory, are the hinges by which a chair such as this would recline. Oh, but how?! So he sits, glides a bit, reaches around, and finally reaches to the side of the cushion and there it is - a six inch recliner bar tucked comfortably within arm's reach for ease of use. He promptly gets up; I sit. And he begins supplying me with books to read outloud to Virginia, calming away the rush of dread and worry over something so trivial and yet so very important to me. In just a moment, everything was better. We really did buy the best chair.