Ikea Did Not Fix My Problem Part 2

My children fed and myself fully-caffinated, we venture forth into the Ikea abyss. With surprisingly little resistance, we round the first floor smoothly, with minimal impulse spending (see giant stuffed broccoli) and only a small indulgence on my niece's upcoming birthday gifts (see adorable stuffed toys). I even manage to contain (most of) my living-spaces envy as we "experience" three unique "apartments," each of which is significantly smaller and yet still meticulously better organized than mine. I try desperately to remember that an entire team of dedicated professionals constructed each of these displays with the help of an unlimited budget and without the noticible distraction of another job, but it is a difficult battle. Upon reflection, I really would seriously consider moving into one of those apartments if I could let the boys jump on the couches without getting shamed (again) by a lovely, helpful member of the Ikea staff. But, again, I digress.

The ease of the first floor, which is actually the second floor, leaves me with such joy and over-confidence that a fall is sure to arrive shortly thereafter. It comes in bedding, where Boy 2 refuses to remained contained by the cart while I try desperately to find a king-sized, off-white, top sheet for my mother-in-law to replace the one her dog ate. It is like I am living in an episode of "No Good Deed Goes Unpunished." The hilarity is palpable, and the understanding sigh from the older woman inspecting pillow cases beside me brings little comfort. To say the least, Boy 1 wasn't helping, what with his constant chatter from the POV of the giant broccoli and his incessant questioning of basically any object, person, or concept that strikes his fancy. That kid seriously needs to read already, then he could at least be of some use in situations like these. Also, if he had refrained from stealing Boy 2's pacifier, that would have helped as well. Brothers can be so...exhausting.

Anyways, back in re-Ikea-ty, the towels I came for are not available in the color I desire, the sheet I looked for at length does not seem to exist, and the overwhelming quantity of microwavable white dishes and bowls leaves me feeling dizzy. On the bright side, I do find two laundry hampers that I like, but as previously mentioned, I fail to realize I need to buy the casters separately.

Please don't make me go back again.

In the end, we all escape with our lives, aided by two servings of the frozen yogurt sold to so many wayward soldiers at the completion of the consumer shopping equivalent of binge drinking. Yes, I realize frozen yogurt is not on the non-dairy-baby-diet, but hindsight is 20-20. One can only hope that we don't have to make yet another run to the pediatric urgent care this week....

Comments

Post a Comment

Thank you very much for your comment! I look forward to approving it.

Popular posts from this blog

Haircuts Are More Than Just Shorter Hair

Image
I cut the baby's hair yesterday. It wasn't the first time, but it was the most significant. Previously, I had simply trimmed, shortened his baby curls in a formation that allowed for at least cursory containment. But now, I have done the irreversible. His baby curls are gone, likely to never return, and with this unique action, with the use of a simple machine to trim and cut and shape, he has irrevocably left the baby world for the world of an older sort. He has become, with no reservations, a toddler. In the conservative Jewish tradition, a boy's hair is not cut until he is three year's old. Once he has arrived at this ripe old age, there is a ceremony called an  upshernish , an event in which members of the religious community ceremoniously cut the child's hair, a symbolic cutting away of  infancy as the small human enters into childhood and the beginning of his formal education. It is at this point that the boy...
Read more

Building Community with a Non-binding Vote

Image
As my little blog has now earned its first pennies, I thought it time to spend more than 3,000% of my earnings on business cards while simultaneously keeping my day job. However, here is where you, dear reader, can contribute and show your love for my continued reflections and rantings. Here, you can take a moment of your precious life to vote on which style of card from the "Elegent" list on Vistaprint best embodies the style, mood, and tone of my illustrious blog.  Yes, I know what you're thinking. How could one tiny rectangle of heavyweight cardstock possibly do justice to all that my blog contains? Well, obviously, or at least hopefully, it can't, but at least you can have some input as to which example does the least crappy job. I will take all votes into consideration, then do whatever I want to do anyway. Artists and writers are fickle and capricious like that. And with all seriousness, thank you for reading my blog. It brings me great joy to know that...
Read more

Victims of Anger

Angry people do angry things. They throw papers off of the table, Scatter dinner across the floor, And refuse to brush their teeth, Unconcerned by the consiquences. The older one sings a song Despite requests for quiet. He repeats, louder each time, Disrupting the ever-shrinking peace. The small one cries. Not the cry of the sad, but the cry of the angry. Angry that he is small; angry that he cannot speak, And his anger seethes out, staining the hopeful darkness of the night. No one rests. No one sleeps. Everyone lives in the angry, vengeful rage. And yet, we still dream of sleep... Peaceful, restorative sleep. Perhaps, one day, it will come, As easily as the sunset, As quiet as the moon. Until then, we suffer, Victims of our own choices. Victims of the children we were born to love.
Read more