"You know, we should probably convert the spare room into something useful," I said, absentmindedly scrolling through my phone. It was just one of those random thoughts that seemed logical in the moment. The apartment was nice, but the extra room had become a catch-all for everything that didn't have a place. Empty boxes, old clothes, a couple of Jackson's guitars (that he promised to "donate" one day but never did), and a lot of unused kitchen appliances.
I didn't think much of it. Just a simple suggestion, right? Boy, was I wrong.
When I said the word "useful," I should've been more specific. Jackson took it as a challenge—no, as a mission.
The next morning, I woke up to the sound of hammering. Not just any hammering, mind you. This was Jackson hammering like the fate of the universe depended on him. It was loud, obnoxious, and oddly determined.
"Jackson?" I called, peeking into the hallway. "What are you doing?"
From behind the closed door, I heard his muffled voice. "Just… making things useful, Lila!"
I frowned. "What?"
A loud crash followed. Something heavy hit the floor. Jackson cursed. "Okay, so I misread the instructions."
I was about to open the door when I noticed the strange scent of paint in the air. "What exactly are you making useful?" I asked, my curiosity growing.
"You'll see," he replied, and the door swung open to reveal the source of all the noise.
And there it was. A disaster of a room, painted in mismatched colors of what was supposed to be pastel blues and pinks—somehow more like neon green and violent shades of purple. A crib, half-assembled and crooked, stood in the middle of the room like a monument to confusion and frustration. Jackson stood in the middle, proudly holding a hammer in one hand and a screwdriver in the other, his face smeared with an alarming amount of paint.
I blinked. "Jackson… what is this?"
"Boom! The baby room!" he said, with a grin that was way too proud.
"The baby room?" I repeated, confused.
Jackson's grin grew wider, and he waved his hand around dramatically. "I mean, it makes sense, right? You said to make the room useful, so here I am! Ready for our future little one!" He struck a ridiculous pose with his hammer like he was auditioning for a superhero movie.
I looked around the room again, my jaw dropping. "This is not what I meant by 'useful,' Jackson!"
He pointed to the crib, which looked like it had been assembled by a toddler with no prior experience. "What's wrong with the crib? It's perfect for a baby. Maybe a little… wobbly? But that's just character."
I raised an eyebrow. "Wobbly? That thing is a death trap."
"Not if the baby's got excellent core strength," he argued, completely missing the point.
I turned my attention to the other "decorations." There were colorful blocks—some of them still in plastic wrap—stacked precariously in one corner. On the wall, a mural Jackson had apparently attempted to paint, but it looked less like a peaceful nursery scene and more like an abstract painting by a toddler who had too much sugar. The image was so chaotic that it almost made the room spin.
"What is this… this abstract art?" I asked.
"Well, I figured it's important to stimulate the baby's creativity early," he said seriously. "You know, give them something to think about when they're in their crib."
I had no words. I was speechless—and that never happened.
"Did you, by any chance, read the instructions for the crib?" I asked, eyeing the pile of unassembled parts lying in a sad heap next to it.
Jackson froze. His face went pale for a second, before he quickly recovered. "Yeah. Of course I did. I'm just… uh… missing some crucial pieces."
I stared at him, unimpressed. "Jackson, I know you didn't read the instructions. You don't even know what an Allen wrench is."
He laughed nervously. "What? No! I totally know what an Allen wrench is. It's—uh—it's like a little magic tool that makes things go together. Like the secret to the universe."
I rolled my eyes. "You didn't read the instructions, did you?"
"Maybe not exactly," he admitted, looking at the pile of screws and planks as if they were about to rise up and revolt. "But I've watched a lot of DIY videos on YouTube. So... basically the same thing."
After trying to salvage the crib, Jackson decided it was time to assemble a baby gate—because, clearly, the room needed to be "baby-proofed." There were only two issues: one, Jackson couldn't follow instructions, and two, the gate wasn't even the right size.
"I think it's supposed to be bigger," he muttered, as he tried to wedge it into the doorway. "Why does this feel like I'm trying to get a square peg into a round hole?"
I looked over from the doorway, my arms crossed, trying not to laugh at his frustration. Jackson was tangled in the baby gate like it was an elaborate trap. His arms were through the slats, and he was shaking the metal bars like he was trying to break free from a very bad decision.
"I'm not sure this is how it's supposed to go," I said, biting back my laughter.
"You think?" he snapped, trying to pull himself free. "The instructions are terrible, Lila! Who even designs these things?"
I couldn't contain it anymore and burst out laughing. The scene was too perfect: Jackson, tangled in a gate, swearing at IKEA instructions like it was a personal affront to his existence.
"Okay, okay, let me help you," I said, still chuckling. I pulled on the gate, only to have Jackson fall backward into a pile of baby stuff he had clearly haphazardly thrown into the room.
"Oh, great. Now we're both stuck," he groaned, trying to stand up and get out of the mess.
"I'm honestly not sure whether to laugh or cry," I said, looking at the absurdity of the whole situation. The room was filled with boxes of mismatched furniture, colorful paint splatters on the floor, and Jackson lying in a heap of baby gear.
"We're going to need a bigger toolbox," he said. "And maybe a bigger room for the mistakes."
I shook my head. "If this is what you consider 'useful,' I'm terrified to see what you'd do with the guest room."
We eventually managed to get Jackson untangled from the baby gate—though not without him tripping over a stuffed toy and nearly faceplanting into a box of diapers.
Jackson sat up, looking defeated. "I think I'm just going to leave the baby gate in the hallway and call it a 'decorative statement piece.'"
"I think that's a good idea," I said, wiping tears of laughter from my eyes. "It's certainly… memorable."
"I swear, Lila, I almost had it right this time." He looked at the half-built crib, then back at me. "Well, at least the baby will have an interesting story to tell when they're older."
I took one last look at the chaos that was supposed to be a nursery and sighed. "Okay, so here's the thing, Jackson," I said. "The idea of a baby room? Great. The execution?" I waved my hand at the disaster area. "Not so much."
Jackson pouted, clearly disappointed. "You're saying it's not 'the nursery of the year'?"
"Jackson, it's the opposite of that," I said with a grin. "But it's fine. I'll give you credit for trying."
"You really know how to boost a guy's ego," he said, rolling his eyes.
"Trust me, Jackson. I'm saving you from a lifetime of IKEA nightmares."
Jackson stared at the room, then looked back at me with a mischievous grin. "So… how about we turn it into a 'fun' room instead? You know, just for us?"
I raised an eyebrow. "What exactly does that entail?"
"Well, I'm thinking video games, snacks, and zero responsibility," he said, winking.
"You're a mess," I said, but I was smiling.
"Only for you, Mrs. Carter."
And somehow, I was starting to think that wasn't the worst thing that could happen.
---
"Maybe the baby room was a disaster, but this whole 'marriage' thing? It was turning out to be an adventure."