The Husband and I are in full-on planning mode (one of my favorite modes in which to be, as you can imagine) for the arrival of The Kid. With roughly three months to go before his debut, we are prepping his room. And when I say “we,” I mean, of course, TH laboring through sweat and frustration as I occasionally climb the stairs and offer snacks and encouragement. And, from time to time, opinions. Some solicited, some not.

We picked up the dresser we ordered online this weekend, and we had to go to Wal-Mart to do so. I haven’t been there for awhile, and about two minutes after we walked through the automatic doors, all I could do was murmur “Target…Target…” pitifully under my breath, but the hard part was just beginning. After TH lugged the mammoth box up the stairs, he faced the task of putting that beast together. I puttered around downstairs, baking banana nut bread and watching The Others (ooh! creepy!) while enjoying the scent of the pumpkin pie candle we had just purchased. After about an hour, I heard TH’s version of anger floating down the stairs: phrases like “Come on!” mixed with colorful language and sighs of frustration; questions like, “How does this make sense, guys? HOW DOES THIS MAKE SENSE?” directed at persons not directly present. When TH emits reactions like these, I, in turn, react in two ways: (1) slight fear due to the infrequency of such anger from him; and (2) slight satisfaction at the fact that I’m not the only one around here with a temper. (Though I am the only one who uses it irrationally on a regular basis.) With this week’s premiere of Modern Family, I realized that I am the Mitchell of this relationship: picky, fussy, absent a penchant for sharing. I voiced this epiphany to TH and he just laughed. And didn’t disagree.

A couple of hours later, the dresser was assembled, and it was time to attack the ceiling fan. Similar reactions ensued, and I went on baking bread and checking in occasionally. By the time dinner rolled around–I pulling a dish proudly from the oven as TH emerged from the nursery sweating blood and bullets–the bulk of the work was done and all I could contribute to the result was gratitude. And snacks.

So this is what progress looks like in our house: nuts and bolts scattered on carpet, sweat and tears, yells and baking. And I love it. Because you don’t always get to see where you’re headed in life, but in this case, we have a crib waiting for a baby and a family waiting to be added to. And for once, I quell the urge to pick up every little piece of the puzzle that’s lying around, the cardboard boxes littering the hallway and the plastic lining and tools scattered on the floor. When you trust that something amazing is being built, you can rest in the mess. When you know you’re being taken care of, you can endure the scares and go on baking bread.