It's been a rush to make a nest for Beckett. I suppose I should have begun this process earlier, but was too unmotivated and confused about my role in such a thing to do so. What does a baby want in a space anyway? I imagine something cozy and dark. Something that replicates the womb. Something smooshy and warm. A place that has a cacophonous heartbeat and muffled talk talk springing from floorboards. But goods designed for babies are far from womblike. Freakish stuffed penguins, bright pink pajamas with alligator feet, alien looking chew toys. Babies spring from the womb into a carnival of psychedelic consumerism. This is something I have mostly tried to avoid, but in experiencing nostalgia for my own childhood and the things my mother and father made for me - by hand (I recall a playroom with a blue and yellow truck bed and slide, a woodcut wall hanging of spiderman, hand sewn clothes with shiny buttons and frills, and dolls begging me to hug them with their splayed arms) Beckett's room echos a bit of what was passed down to me, most of which looks nothing like my innards.
I attempted (and sort of succeeded) making a rudimentary mobile out of sticks and felt balls, the mister and I made a painting that she can ogle from her crib, and here's a print I designed for another spot on the wall summing up precisely how I feel about her these days.