After her twins were born, a friend of ours said that she had no idea why she was obsessed with sheet sets before the babies were born. And, honestly, having seen the bedding sets out there, I’m appalled at the choices. I can’t imagine being at all interested in tiny Winnie the Pooh blanket sets, bumpers and sheets when those things are going to a) get washed til they fade into nothing or b) kill the baby. Or both. I wouldn’t be surprised. What’s wrong with a 400 thread count fitted sheet in jewel-toned solids or sporting a discrete stripe? Does the baby have to sleep in tiny swinging monkeys or little orbiting rockets? Vegas won’t even be able to SEE said monkey-piloted rockets. I think they mean those patterns to be for me.
Are they kidding?
So clearly, I’m obsessed with sheets in a different way. Less oh-how-cute and more oh-my-god-no. However, lest you think I’m sitting over here, superior, let me tell you that I am ridiculous about changing tables.
You have no idea.
I am a practical person. I like things that are well-made, sturdy, quiet, multi-purpose. Furniture with a sole purpose has a limited lifespan in our home. I can’t abide things that wobble. And, although I love to look at lacquered, red, Chinese cabinets and bright green dressers, I can never convince myself that buying one is a good idea. I like to be able to change what pops and furniture with too much personality isn’t exactly chameleon-like.
Changing tables are, by their very nature, that drunk guy wearing a chicken costume in the corner of the room. True changing tables are so distinct, that you couldn’t ever repurpose one without your gusts whispering to one another you do think she knows that isn’t a tea cart, don’t you? Some are flimsy baby racks (is she drying her sweaters on the changing table?!) and some are dressers with a little add on (funny how she’s stuck little flowers in those holes there. Where do you think she changes the baby now?) but they all seem to be slapped together and inexpensive or slapped together and cost a mint. Why not just use a bed? Or buy a pad and stick it on a dresser top. This is not useful furniture. It has no life span. It will probably sneak up on you and kill you in your sleep!
But, like my sheet set-obsessed friend, I am irrationally attached to changing tables. I want one. I want a perfect cabinet with a baby sized compartment where I can coo at Vegas while I pretend to bite his toes. I want to be able to easily whip out a diaper and clean up his tiny butt while effortlessly disposing of the dirty wipes and tossing the old diaper into the pail for pickup. I want to have a space the dog can’t get into but with unrivaled ease of access. No sticking drawers, no invadeable shelves. It would be nice if it matched, but as long as there are no rocket driving monkeys, I’ll be content. I just want a changing table. A real live shit station. For me, it’s the mark of bringing home a baby.
For the record, there are no notable changing tables in my past. I think my mother might have let us run around nude.
The sensible side of me knows that, even if we can find the sort of table we like in an antique store or quirky shop, it’s going to be almost impossible to get into the house. “Have one delivered,” says the logical side of me, or “Buy something in a flat pack!” But my soul throws a temper tantrum. JUST GIVE ME MY CHANGING TABLE DREAMS. And I scoffed at sheet sets.