One of the primal instincts of motherhood is upon me. I'm nesting! Or at least I'm trying to.
According to the source of all information worth knowing, Wikipedia, nesting can be characterised by a strong urge to clean and organise one's home. Its not just limited to the baby's room, women have been known to unscrew every knob on the kitchen cupboards to disinfect the screws (that's not going to happen at Casa de Glow-Less), organise the pantry in to food groups and start major renovations.
The urge to clean hit me a few weeks ago. A domestic goddess I am not, so Hubby was completely shocked to come home and find the washing done, the floors vacuumed and the kitchen shining so brightly that a welder's mask would have come in handy.
I've mentioned before that I bought a lovely second hand cot - it was a nice varnished brown but I wanted it to be white just because I'm difficult. The recent heat wave means I haven't finished the transformation yet, but when the weather cools down a bit I'll be back out there with my dust mask and sander! There is something a little bit freaky and yet a little bit provocative about a pregnant woman using power tools. And nothing says sexy like protective ear muffs.
My only problem with the whole nesting adventure is that I'm desperate to paint Tricky's room but I can't! Hubby's parents are coming to stay with us for a few days soon and its currently a guest bedroom, so they'd end up suffocating from the painting fumes for sure. A lot of people would probably think the demise of their in-laws would be a blessing, but I actually love mine. Plus when you think that she can sew and he is the world's best DIY-er, they're going to be pretty handy to have around when Tricky starts growing quickly and breaking things. I'm actually wondering if it would be bad manners to ask them to move the furniture from the now defunct guest room for me on the day they leave? “Thanks for staying, now get to work”. Too much?
As I can't do all the big jobs I want to do, I've been busying myself with other slightly pointless tasks like folding baby clothes so neatly they could be on display in Pumpkin Patch and organising them in to sizes. I even made up labels so that at a glance it could be seen that this pile is 0000 and this one is 000 – because surely taking two seconds to look at a tag would be too hard, and one should never assume that just because this pile is to the right of 0000 it is therefore 000 (even though it is – if I could alphabetise it too I would!). I'm not so daft that I don't see how incredibly stupid this is and that makes it quite frustrating. I've turned from a person interested in world events and politics (plus a bit of celebrity gossip if I'm honest) to one obsessed by pieces of material so small they could be mistaken for a hanky.
There is one positive of having to wait to transform Tricky's room in to a relaxing haven where he will sleep soundly and never ever cry (spot the delusional woman). If I finished his room tomorrow then what else would I do between now and bringing him home? In this hormone affected state I might turn in to a screw disinfecting freak! Or clean the skirting boards with a toothbrush! Oh the horror!
Did the nesting urge hit you? Did the staff at Bunnings know your name by the time you were 35 weeks? Leave a comment.