My master blog 6544

I was hunched over the backseat of my car in midtown, rain on the windshield and a crib instruction manual spread over my knees, when it hit me: I should have asked more questions before I drove into the city. The clock said 6:12 p.m., the streetlights were already on, and Queen Street was a slow parade of brake lights. I could hear someone in the next lane trying to argue with their GPS. I had a crib partially assembled on the passenger seat, three mismatched screws, and a

We were stuck at the lights on Bloor, the windshield half-fogged from the sudden rain, and the delivery guy on the phone kept saying "an hour, maybe two" like it was a suggestion rather than a plan. I had already circled Baby & Kids Furniture Warehouse Toronto twice, because the GPS kept rerouting me through a construction detour. I remember thinking, out loud, "Okay, this is happening today whether the universe agrees or not." The weirdest part of the morning I arrived

I was elbow-deep in cardboard at 9:18 p.m., lamp on the kitchen table throwing a tired yellow circle across the instructions, when I realized buying local had saved me more than money. The crib’s slats clicked into place with a tiny relief-sounding thunk and outside my window Queen Street traffic hummed like distant bees. I could have sworn I’d never be this domestic, but here I was, knees bruised from kneeling on laminate, grinning at a box marked Baby & Kids Furniture War