Nest v. nest
·ed, nest·ing, nests
1. To build or occupy a nest.
2. To create and settle into a warm and secure refuge.
3. To hunt for birds’ nests, especially in order to collect the
eggs.
4. To fit together in a stack.
Nest v. nest·ed, nest·ing, nests
1. To build or occupy a nest.
2. To create and settle into a warm and secure refuge.
3. To hunt for birds’ nests, especially in order to collect the eggs.
4. To fit together in a stack.
I have fallen victim to the third trimester tug to sterilize and revamp every surface and item in sight. This need has a pretty word to describe it: nesting. It conjures up lovely bundles of twigs and string woven together with love and lovely blue Robin’s eggs nestled under the mommy bird. In reality, it’s not that pretty and is much more demanding – and expensive.
I thought I was somewhat prepared for this phenomenon. But like every pregnancy “symptom” that has overtaken my body and household, I was wrong.
The physical and emotional changes – from bloated ankles and pimply forehead to weeping jags and birth anxieties – have left my husband and I a little perplexed and grateful that they are indeed temporary.
Nesting is its own primal urge. I had read all about it. The pregnancy experts warn that this strong instinct to feather one’s nest for “hatching” typically strikes in the final weeks of pregnancy, but often drops by for a visit much earlier.
For me, this craziness started even before I found out I was pregnant. I went shopping with a girlfriend at a discount home store a week before the fateful test turned up positive. One thing led to another and an hour and two shopping carts later, I had bought items for half the rooms in our home.
Even my girlfriend, who is usually a little more – shall we say – reckless in shops than I, couldn’t believe what had gotten into me.
To this day, I can’t begin to explain it. One moment I was admiring a blue vase and the next it was in my cart along with its twin. After that it was a blur of rooster prints, mirrors, place mats and candles.
Suffice it to say, my husband Chris was none-too-happy, but has since gotten over it. After finding out that we were expecting, I scanned my pregnancy books hoping for some kind of explanation. Happily, I found it on page 190. OK, the author doesn’t exactly justify spending gazillions of dollars on a new dust ruffle or tablecloth, but he has some sympathy for the urge to clean house and “going to extremes.”
Well, if that isn’t going to extremes, I’m feeling a little extreme now. In my sixth month of pregnancy, I put my foot down and told Chris that if we are going to bring a baby into our home, she has to have new carpeting to drool, throw up and crawl around on. Our old carpeting just would not do.
I got my wish. A week ago, a workman appeared at our door and ripped up old sections of our old brown carpet, replacing it with pure, fresh sheets of sandy carpeting.
Of course, moving furniture in and out of rooms to make way for the carpeting forced me to take inventory of everything in our home. This included the stacks upon stacks of magazines I had stashed under our bed that I would “one day” read or clip articles. Then there were the countless fancy shopping bags I had collected for no apparent reason and the CDs that Chris and I haven’t listened to since high school.
I keep envisioning our little one in our home snuggled in her swing, infant seat and my arms. I scrutinize every object in our home and ask myself: Is this fit for her to touch, taste, smell or roll around on?
Consequently, I’m dusting, mopping and vacuuming like a mad woman. I can hear the clock ticking, feel the time running out. Soon, our baby will arrive. We’ll bring her home, swaddled in a blanket and start our new life together as a family.
The suddenness of it will be overwhelming. I know, in the beginning, Chris and I will be clueless, stumbling along guided by our little one’s cries.
But I know I can rest assured that our nest will be equipped with fresh sheets, clean carpeting and newly scrubbed walls.
