Nesting.

I've been meaning to write a blog post for a long time, but lately any free time I have has been sabotaged by intense bouts of rampant nesting.  It's uncontrolled, it's even against my will, but it comes over me like a tidal wave.  Or like a small evil little elf takes over my body and starts operating my arms and legs from the inside, pushing me forward despite the bags under my eyes and the weight in my step.

I was thinking about the term "nesting" today, and how sweet it sounds.  It makes you think of a little mama bird, delicately preparing her nest to lay her sweet little delicate bird eggs.  But have you ever actually watched a bird build a nest?  Have you actually witnessed a bird nesting?  I have.  (I like birds, okay, it's fine.)  It's no whistle while you work Snow White fairy tale.  That poor little mama bird is possessed.  Frantic.  Obsessed.  Find perfect twig.  No, wrong, no, no, yes.  That one will do.  Back to the nest.  Poke. Poke. Fix. Fine.  There.  Must get more twigs.  No, wrong, no, no... back and forth.  Back and forth.  You just want to throw something at her and tell her to chill out.  Take a rest little mama bird.  But there's no reasoning with birds, you see.

There's also no reasoning with nesters of the human variety.  The more troublesome thing is, at least the birds are actually doing something that makes sense.  They are actually building a nest.  This is pretty much vital to the survival of their babies.  Nesting for humans, or at least for me, makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.  It's not like I'm suddenly overtaken by the urge to build a house for my baby to live in.  That's already taken care of.  I'm not even building a crib, I found one on craig's list.  I'm doing completely irrational shit that really doesn't even need to be done at all, nevermind need to be done before the arrival of my baby.  But I can't help it.

For example, yesterday, I was dead on my feet.  All morning while Finn was at therapy I was running my errands.  The whole way through the grocery store the only thing keeping me upright was the light at the end of the tunnel that said you will nap today when Finn naps.   You will sleep.  You will rest.  Nap.  Sleep.  Almost there.  We got home, I put Finn down for his nap.  Yes, finally I said.  It is time.  I can rest.  I'll just get a glass of water and go lie down.  So I head to the kitchen and open the refrigerator and BAM! that's it.  it's over.  There is absolutely no way on God's green earth that I can even consider putting my feet up with the interior of my refrigerator in such disarray.  I'll just reorganize the condiments I say.  I'll just check expiration dates.  An hour and a half later, as I hear Finn beginning to stir, I am covered in sweat and clorox, laughing maniacally as I survey my handiwork.  Not only did I have to empty out the entire refrigerator and freezer and clean the whole thing, but I then had to arrange everything categorically and by color. 

God forbid Billy come home and put the sour cream on the fruit shelf GOD FORBID.

I've lost all control.

Days before it was the inside of my dish washer.  I couldn't put my lunch plate in there and just shut the door.  Just turn my back on the soap residue that was clearly festering in the cracks of the interior.  How could I go about the rest of my day with the knowledge that it was just THERE?  I had no choice.

The list goes on and on.  Frankly, I could actually be doing more worthwhile tasks like taking all of the gift wrapping supplies out of the baby's closet so that it can actually be used for baby things, but that makes too much rational sense.  I'd rather mop all of the hardwood floors with Murphy's Oil Soap for the 3rd time this week because I JUST HAVE TO OKAY!

oof.

The other thing that Bird's really got going for her, other than having an actual viable purpose, is not having a husband around.  You never see Daddy Bird staring at her miserably and thinking "my wife has lost it."  No, she is free to psychotically build her nest without judgement or pity.  That daddy bird really has it made.  Where'd he get off to, anyway?  Someplace safer, I'm sure.  My husband, on the other hand, isn't so lucky.  He's left to pick up the pieces of my slowly decomposing brain, like for example, by chasing down a wet, naked two year old after bath time because I got distracted going from tub to towel and suddenly became stricken with the need to scrub the base of the bathroom sink.  I'm sorry i know this isn't the right time! I say while he slips on wet footprints and gives me "the eye".   The eye used to be a look of annoyance.  It kind of morphed into a look of tired exasperation.  And has now settled, finally, into a look of resigned sadness.  This is my life.  The eye says.  That is my crazy wife.  He loves me.

In summary, nesting isn't cute. 
But my house is really clean. 
Also we're having a baby in five weeks and that's weird.