Poor Tommy

A few weeks ago, I started writing my "list of crap I need Josh to do before the baby comes" on the fridge. Josh laughed at me because he thinks it's funny when textbooks are accurate.

Apparently Josh believes that
"get the bottles, clothes, blankets, carseat, toys, swing, bath, and all other baby-looking business out of the attic" and
"throw out all of Tommy's toys because they're gross and large" and
"replace the kitchen drawers because it's impossible to get ALL of the crumbs out of the corners"
are all categorized as "some unique and seemingly irrational behaviors in pregnant women...." or "an uncontrollable urge to clean one's house." Otherwise known as nesting.

Even though he laughed at me, he pulled all of the baby stuff down from the attic and we suddenly remembered how small our living room really is.

Tommy immediately fell in love with the swing. Which is weird since back when it was his, his usual reaction was something like this:

But now he pushes and pushes and pushes the baby swing. Then he asks if he can have "hep [getting] up-igh pwease?" and his tiny little heart breaks in two while I try to explain that he's too big and that it's for Little John and that not everything in the whole wide world is just for him anymore.

Seriously. I actually saw his tiny little heart break.

And my ginormous (and probably swollen since everything else on my body is swollen) heart broke too.

Just wait till he sees the little one sleeping in his bed (which has the mattress raised back up high where it belongs but looks so unnatural) wearing his clothes, drinking from his bottle and laying on his mom's lap.

It's not gonna be pretty.