There is a room in our house that has become sort of a catch-all. Most people have one, or at least a counter or a closet where everything goes that you don’t want to deal with at the moment. Sound familiar? In our case, this room is the place that is going to become the nursery for our baby.
The hubs and I discussed what to do about the nursery a while back. We thought the best course of action was to wait until an expectant mother chose us, or possibly even wait until we brought the baby home. That way we would know whether to decorate for a boy or a girl. We would also avoid the heartbreaking situation of having to come home to a fully operational, decorated nursery if the mother changed her mind in the hospital after the birth of the baby. A sound, logical plan decided upon by two extremely practical people.
Practicality, logic, thorough analysis of every possibly scenario–the hubs and I are a nonstop party! Whoop whoop!
About a week ago I started feeling this strange tickle in my subconscious. That room was calling out to me. I ignored it briefly because I certainly have plenty of other tasks awaiting completion that occupy a higher priority level at the moment. But then, I realized what the tickle was…nesting. I recognized it from the final weeks of my pregnancy with E. Our little man selfishly decided to be born at 37 weeks, so I missed out on the really good nesting window that starts right around week 39, and increases in both fervor and insanity until the baby is born.
I did not get to experience this myself, but I have a good friend who did. I witnessed the madness that is week 41; my extremely pregnant friend, who had already cleaned all there was to be possibly be cleaned, finally resorted to polishing tile grout on her bathroom floor using only a Q-tip moistened with water.
I figured nesting went hand in hand with pregnancy hormones, especially late pregnancy hormones, but I figured wrong because I have the fever. I had the hubs carry the heavy stuff out of the future nursery to the attic. I sorted out what was left and parceled it out into piles of what I still needed and what was bound for Goodwill. Once I was left with only an empty room, I actually scrubbed the baseboards. I crawled on my hands and knees brandishing a sponge and a bucket of vinegar solution and scurried around the entire perimeter of the room scrubbing baseboards. This is pretty big time for someone who generally cannot be bothered to pick her wet towels up off the bathroom floor.
Now I have a pristine, empty bedroom just waiting to be nested. It mocks me every time I walk by. I think I hear it say, “The sooner you decorate and organize me, the sooner your baby will be here.” Well, the logic is sound, and no one appreciates sound logic more than me.
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