Baby bed sets
Baby Strollers
he Da Vinci Anastasia Sleigh Crib is a modern and elegant adaptation of a classic curved sleigh design that is sure to add a special touch to any nursery. An adjustable 3 level mattress spring system will grow with your baby. The teething rail protects the finish as well as baby. Unique drawers add fabulous storage options to this distinctive crib. The graceful design, solid wood construction and beautiful finish will please generations of parents. Note: Mattress is not included. This item is a special order and has a 30 percent restocking fee, any damaged or defective parts will be replaced by the manufacturer. Your credit card will be charged when the order is placed
When our little boy was just a couple of weeks old, he spent several days suffering from a stuffy nose. Neither suction nor saline drops were working, and no one was getting any sleep. One night, I realized that I would have to put my mouth around his little nose and suck out this boy's snot.
Was it gross? Yes, it was. In fact, in my sleep-addled state, it reminded me rather of the climactic scene from the movie Saw, when the hero saws off his own foot to break free of a shackle so he could save his family from a killer. Ah, the sacrifices we fathers must endure!
As you endure the toughest parts of parenthood — the anguished days and sleepless nights — perhaps your mind turns to the trials of Anna Karenina or Hester Prynne. Or you ponder the Biblical stories of Job, Abraham, or Mary Magdalene.
Me? I think about horror flicks.
Like most horror fans of the guilty-pleasure variety, I'm actually a bit squeamish. I decided early on to avoid a close-up view of our baby's emergence from the womb. When we were forced into a C-section, I held my wife's gaze in the operating room as the doctors mucked about down below. (Delivery, I soon discovered, is only the first parental experience that is both joyous and terrifying.)
Virtually all of the horrors of fatherhood for me soon coalesced around one issue: How to get our adorable baby boy to close his beautiful blue eyes and get a little goddamn sleep. First, we tried letting him doze in a bassinet by our bed, then in the bed itself. Soon we joined the ranks of the sleepless zombies–the classic, staggering Night of the Living Dead zombies, not the newfangled, sprinting 28 Days Later zombies, who I learned in the DVD were professional dancers in real life. (These lucky zombies presumably got plenty of sleep and exercise, which must have facilitated all that sprinting.)
Desperate for any solution that did not require hours of crying it out, we tracked down a “sleep consultant.” My wife assumed this lady would take a gentle approach because she got good marks from a parents' group in Berkeley. And our therapist certainly had a sensitive manner, with her soft blue eyes, cascading hair and gentle voice. Even her name — Angelique — made her sound positively heaven-sent.
We were in for a surprise, however. Like the priests and psychics in every devil-baby movie since The Exorcist, this saintly soul carried a most disturbing message: We would have to exorcise the demon of sleeplessness by ignoring Jonah's cries.
Now, horror movies make it very clear that neglecting children is a VERY BAD IDEA. Give them a few years, and they are bound to extract vengeance. They slash and dismember their own parents (and anyone else stupid enough to approach their lair). They crawl out of television sets and turn your face into Silly Putty. They commit murder with their mind-power alone. Be gentle and loving to your children, these movies advise, or else.
But we were forced to turn a deaf ear to this message. We had to sleep, and so did our boy. As I listened to our sweet child weep and moan just down the hall, my mind turned to The Ring, in which a little girl kept by her evil mother at the bottom of a well turns evil herself. Certainly the image of the “ring” of light around the nursery door would be imprinted on our baby's mind forever, as he wreaked his vengeance!
To make it through the night, I kept in mind a scene in the Evil Deadin which a deadly poltergeist lures a guy into a basement by pleading — in the voice of his girlfriend — to be let out. Needless to say, going into the basement was also a VERY BAD IDEA. Similarly, I would have to ignore the pleas of my baby boy in that nursery.
Then, something happened. Over the course of a few nights, his crying diminished. And each night, he woke up the next morning as cheerful as ever. He had no apparent desire to slash us to pieces, or to set the crib on fire telekinetically.
Jonah's sleeping problems aren't conquered, but he's made progress. Sometimes he even crawls onto a little bed we've set up on the floor and rests his head. One day soon, I hope, he'll fall asleep all by himself. As he lies there, eyes closed and breathing regularly, I will stare at his angelic face and breathe a tremendous sigh of relief.
That's when his eyes fly open.
Eeeeek!
When our little boy was just a couple of weeks old, he spent several days suffering from a stuffy nose. Neither suction nor saline drops were working, and no one was getting any sleep. One night, I realized that I would have to put my mouth around his little nose and suck out this boy's snot.
Was it gross? Yes, it was. In fact, in my sleep-addled state, it reminded me rather of the climactic scene from the movie Saw, when the hero saws off his own foot to break free of a shackle so he could save his family from a killer. Ah, the sacrifices we fathers must endure!
As you endure the toughest parts of parenthood — the anguished days and sleepless nights — perhaps your mind turns to the trials of Anna Karenina or Hester Prynne. Or you ponder the Biblical stories of Job, Abraham, or Mary Magdalene.
Me? I think about horror flicks.
Like most horror fans of the guilty-pleasure variety, I'm actually a bit squeamish. I decided early on to avoid a close-up view of our baby's emergence from the womb. When we were forced into a C-section, I held my wife's gaze in the operating room as the doctors mucked about down below. (Delivery, I soon discovered, is only the first parental experience that is both joyous and terrifying.)
Virtually all of the horrors of fatherhood for me soon coalesced around one issue: How to get our adorable baby boy to close his beautiful blue eyes and get a little goddamn sleep. First, we tried letting him doze in a bassinet by our bed, then in the bed itself. Soon we joined the ranks of the sleepless zombies–the classic, staggering Night of the Living Dead zombies, not the newfangled, sprinting 28 Days Later zombies, who I learned in the DVD were professional dancers in real life. (These lucky zombies presumably got plenty of sleep and exercise, which must have facilitated all that sprinting.)
Desperate for any solution that did not require hours of crying it out, we tracked down a “sleep consultant.” My wife assumed this lady would take a gentle approach because she got good marks from a parents' group in Berkeley. And our therapist certainly had a sensitive manner, with her soft blue eyes, cascading hair and gentle voice. Even her name — Angelique — made her sound positively heaven-sent.
We were in for a surprise, however. Like the priests and psychics in every devil-baby movie since The Exorcist, this saintly soul carried a most disturbing message: We would have to exorcise the demon of sleeplessness by ignoring Jonah's cries.
Now, horror movies make it very clear that neglecting children is a VERY BAD IDEA. Give them a few years, and they are bound to extract vengeance. They slash and dismember their own parents (and anyone else stupid enough to approach their lair). They crawl out of television sets and turn your face into Silly Putty. They commit murder with their mind-power alone. Be gentle and loving to your children, these movies advise, or else.
But we were forced to turn a deaf ear to this message. We had to sleep, and so did our boy. As I listened to our sweet child weep and moan just down the hall, my mind turned to The Ring, in which a little girl kept by her evil mother at the bottom of a well turns evil herself. Certainly the image of the “ring” of light around the nursery door would be imprinted on our baby's mind forever, as he wreaked his vengeance!
To make it through the night, I kept in mind a scene in the Evil Deadin which a deadly poltergeist lures a guy into a basement by pleading — in the voice of his girlfriend — to be let out. Needless to say, going into the basement was also a VERY BAD IDEA. Similarly, I would have to ignore the pleas of my baby boy in that nursery.
Then, something happened. Over the course of a few nights, his crying diminished. And each night, he woke up the next morning as cheerful as ever. He had no apparent desire to slash us to pieces, or to set the crib on fire telekinetically.
Jonah's sleeping problems aren't conquered, but he's made progress. Sometimes he even crawls onto a little bed we've set up on the floor and rests his head. One day soon, I hope, he'll fall asleep all by himself. As he lies there, eyes closed and breathing regularly, I will stare at his angelic face and breathe a tremendous sigh of relief.
That's when his eyes fly open.
Eeeeek!
I have recently suffered through and survived a harrowing experience: my first attack of parental guilt. The ironic thing about this is while I am going through this my child is busy floating in-utero and practicing Zidane style head butts to my internal organs. So, what extreme force of nature pushed me far enough into a state of anxiety and guilt that I couldn’t sleep? The same potent combination that snares adolescents: peer pressure. What kind of peer pressure? The pressure to have the best nursery for my baby, of course.
My husband and I are a frugal couple both out of the necessity of living solely on an enlisted military member’s salary and because we enjoy the simple things in life. We’d take delivery pizza and a good movie over wine and the opera any day. Sure, we both enjoy splurging every now and then, but in general we’re content to live in the slow lane and leave the hoity-toity life to those who desire it.
Our son is due mid-November and while we realize that there are obviously some non-negotiable costs involved with raising a child we were happy in our belief that we could do this in the same style that we live . After all, like the nursery rhyme says… “What are little boys made of? Snakes and snails and puppy dog tails…” That didn’t seem like it should require massive amounts of money or debt to get those things together. Our plan went like this: we’d buy the crib and car seat new because of safety reasons, the rest of the furniture could be second-hand, clothes and toys we’d leave for the baby showers and then supplement as necessary. We’ve decided to breastfeed and I conveniently have the necessary equipment for that. Diapers are expensive, but we draw the line at cloth diapers so we’ll just tack those onto the grocery list. We were set.
Enter massive influx of pregnancy hormones. Somehow I made it through the first trimester firmly in control of my own emotions and I think that for that reason the second trimester caught me off-guard and found myself (and my poor bystander husband) bombarded by mood swings with no equal. Suddenly what is good enough for me and my husband isn’t good enough for the baby.
I’m still trying to combat these nerves with my common sense that is scattered in with all my pregnancy hormones. On a good day I could still believe that having a baby does not have to be a materialistic marathon, but unfortunately, I wasn’t having a good day when all the baby catalogs began arriving.
I don’t know if you’ve ever looked at these magazines, or looked at them through the hormone-glazed eyes of a pregnant woman, but these are like pornography to the pregnant woman. Page after glossy page of coordinated nursery items called out to me. All I needed to give my baby that peaceful haven was a solid wood crib, a matching changing table, and dresser. Of course, don’t forget the gliding rocking chair and ottoman, plus the chaise lounger for when you need to sleep in the nursery with the baby. Then there’s the matching rug, wall hanging, picture frames, lampshades, laundry hamper, diaper stacker and closet organizer all sold separately, but totally necessary.
Sure it would cost thousands and thousands of dollars plus shipping and handling, but you just have to think of it as an investment. After all, modern nursery furniture is very similar to transformer toys. The crib is a toddler bed, a daybed, and then the child’s marriage bed. The changing table starts out for diaper changes, but converts into toy shelves and then an armoire. The dresser, well, it’s just a dresser, but it matches everything else. The furniture even has stylish baby names for each set. You can have the Madison, James, Caitlyn, Oliver, or Paige line. This isn’t just nursery furniture this is a legacy.
Now that I’ve lusted through page after page of furniture it’s time to pick out the theme of the nursery. The array of coordinated lines of bedding is no less addictive or intoxicating than the furniture choices. There’s the retro nursery, the storybook nursery, the princess nursery, the sports themed nursery, the nautical nursery, the urban nursery. These sets will only set you back several hundred dollars for four pieces: a quilt, a bumper, a fitted sheet, and a crib skirt. Of course, no self-respecting parent would let their child have such a bare bones nursery. If I love my child I’ll also get the valance, the curtains, the basket liners for the closet organizer I previously picked out, and of course the lampshade. I’ll also need spare sheets that match so I’ll buy some of those and then check out the website for additional items.
And then at the end of the catalog after I’ve frantically been searching to see if they accept organ donations to pay for everything I find that, no, they aren’t yet taking spare organs, they will however offer me their own line of credit. So not only can I leave my child the legacy of his nursery furniture when I’m no longer with him I can also leave him the bill and the astronomical interest rate.
This is the point where I’d start to cry because sitting on my couch, which we acquired third-hand and free from a friend, I know that there is no way my son will have the twelve piece solid cherry Oliver convertible furniture. I’m not going to call the toll-free number and have an interior designer stop by to consult on any nursery renovation, since we’re renting and can’t even paint the walls. He’s not going to have a six hundred dollar crib set when you’re not even supposed to cover the baby with a quilt and he’s just going to spit up on the designer sheets. And I know, that none of it is important, but they make it seem so necessary that I forget myself for a minute and I just cry because I want the best for my baby.
Now my husband comes home wearing his camouflage uniform and finds me crying on the couch my tear drops wrinkling the glossy pages. And instead of being irritated with his temporarily materialistic wife, he kisses me and reminds me of the adorable blanket that we bought from Target that’s so soft, and how we picked out nursery furniture from Walmart that both matches and looks nice for under three hundred dollars. And this is what dries my tears. It’s not the baby items wherever they come from, it’s not the bedding set, it’s not even the words my husband says. It’s just the gentle reminder that he loves me, I love him, and we’ll both love our son, which is a far better legacy than anything else we could leave for him.
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