Page 124 of Pregnant in Plaid
Gage sighs. "Fine. How hard can it be?"
The crib instructions are in Swedish. Or possibly Norwegian. Definitely not English. There are diagrams that make no sense, with parts labeled A through Z and approximately four hundred tiny screws.
"This should have come with a warning label," Gage mutters, staring at what might be the headboard. Or possibly the footboard. Who knows?
"There's an instruction video," I say, pulling out my phone.
The video is seventeen minutes long and features a cheerful Swedish man assembling the crib while speaking rapidly in Swedish. It's not helpful.
"We're Army Rangers," I remind Gage. "We can do this."
"We disarmed IEDs in Afghanistan. This is different."
"It's furniture. We've built harder things."
"Did those harder things come with Allen wrenches and threats of infant death if assembled wrong?"
He has a point.
Three hours later, we've assembled something that might be a crib. It's mostly upright. Only wobbles alittle. We're both sweating despite the cabin being approximately fifty degrees.
"This seems unsafe," Gage says, giving it a tentative shake.
"It's fine."
"Your daughter is going to sleep in this."
It's not fine.
We disassemble it and start over.
The changing table is missing three crucial pieces. The swing we bought plays lullabies that sound vaguely demonic when played through the cheap speakers. And at some point, I drop an Allen wrench, and it rolls under the couch where I'm pretty sure it's going to live forever.
"We should call Tessa," Gage says around midnight. "She's better at this."
"We can do this. We're men. We built civilization."
"Yeah, but did civilization come with Allen wrenches?"
"We're not calling for help. We've got this."
By four AM, we don't have this.
The cabin looks like a furniture bomb went off. Parts everywhere. Instructions scattered across the floor. The crib is assembled but listing to one side. The changing table has three legs instead of four because we used one of the legs for the crib by mistake. The swing works but sounds like it's possessed.
Gage is lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling. "I've lostfeeling in my hands."
"Same."
"Your daughter is going to know we're incompetent."
"She's days old. She won't remember this."
"Patrice will remember."
He's right. Patrice is absolutely going to remember this.
We hear a truck pull up outside. Through the window, I see Tessa's truck. She and Patrice get out, take one look at the cabin windows—still blazing with light at four AM—and head for the door.
