So, I bought a changing table. It was used. A girl had it for sale on our local garage sale Facebook page. I’d gone back and forth about getting a changing table. “Couldn’t I just change them on the floor,” I asked my stepdad, who had helped us get the nursery ready to furnish and had just moved a mini fridge and armchair into it for my helpless, pregnant ass. He laughed, shook his head, told me the first time I had to change them at three in the morning with less than two hours of sleep I’d be begging for a changing table.
The room is just so small. It’s so small. And the back part of it is my poor husband’s “man cave.” Our nursery was once his room. His computer, all of the things that he brought with him when he moved in that really didn’t match anything in my house. His Hot Wheels collection and his Rammstein posters. Now everything of his is shoved into a tiny little back room that’s really nothing more than a very small walk-in closet. I’m trying to think of a way to convince him to take my office (since I’m never in it anymore). My motivations are selfish. I just want the extra space in the nursery.
Anyway, I bought this changing table because it was the right price. Problem was that it was the wrong color. It was white. I’m talking white-white. I’m talking, like someone had done their daughter’s nursery in princess theme. Our stuff is rustic. Distressed. Wood grain. Neutral colors. Muted, neutral colors. This changing table was…just…so…white.
So I decided I’d need to roughen it a bit. I spent yesterday – the majority of yesterday – running to pick the thing up and then beating and staining it so that it would look old and, well, beaten. I sanded it down, extra hard on the edges, gave it a brush of Minwax, let the Minwax get just tacky, then wiped it off and stood back to admire my work. Take a look!