Is it a problem that I've blogged as much about Ikea this year as I have about children's literature? That its one of my most frequently-used tags? What can I say? I'm beginning to believe I am actually really hooked on that insanely delicious chemical smell in the warehouse. I can not get enough.
David thought our Ikea trips were completed. So did I. But on Friday, I began to feel a desperate, relentless urge to solve the lighting deficiency above our desk area. There is, of course, only one way to do that and it involves Swedish meatballs. Somehow, I managed to get David on board for an impromptu Ikea trip. I don't know why I say "somehow." I know precisely how I did it, by bartering sex which also offered the promising possibility of jump-starting my labor, the which I am eager to do. Yes, in the course of a few hours, I received acupuncture, had sex and went shopping at Ikea, and that regimen is commonly accepted as the labor-induction trifecta.
So there we were in Ikea, perusing lighting options. I knew something was up because the elated, out-of-body feeling I usually have while walking through the model rooms was absent. Even rifling through the Children's Ikea puppet bins was offering me any satisfaction. And I walked straight through the marketplace without so much as picking up a bunch of place mats or measuring cups or a handy grater Also, I had to keep stopping in the aisles to huff and puff through contractions, which were coming like crazy.
Still, I preserved. We were so close to solving the lighting deficiency. Also I wanted to replace our coffee table. And while we were there, maybe a few more shelves. One can never have too much storage. Finally, we were on line waiting to pay and David asked if we should pick up some cinnamon buns to take home to the kids.
"Ohhhh, I don't know," I moaned.
"What's the matter with you?" he asked, "I've never known you to say no to cinnamon buns."
"I don't know," I said, "I may be having the baby. Like, right now."
"Well, should we leave?" he inquired.
There were two people in front of us on line.
"No," I said, "We've come so far. And we've almost solved the lighting problem. Let's just pay and then we can go to the hospital if necessary."
David pointed out that if I did indeed go into labor at Ikea, maybe they'd give us a free nursery. I didn't that it was that easy to score a free nursery. I'm guessing dozens of women go into lobar in Ikeas world-wide each year.
As it turned out, I was not, in fact, in labor. The contractions subsided, giving us ample opportunity to install the overhead lighting and put together the new coffee table. Still, would've been a good story. And I could've given the baby a middle name of Ikea.