Saturday, March 10, 2007


What some women affectionately refer to as "nesting" has, for me, turned into a preoccupation of epic proportions. I could say I've been "organizing" every area of my house, but "attacking" would be a more appropriate word.

The hall closet was the first to experience my wrath. Out came an entire trash bag of forgotten odds and ends, expired medicines, lotions and potions with only half an inch left. In went lovely white bins, filled just to capacity, complete with labels on all visible sides. And what did The Nesting Monster do when she viewed her work? Commend herself for a job well done, an area set right and made accessible? No. The Nesting Monster fell asleep (at 1a.m.) thinking of which area she would attack tomorrow.

In about ten minutes, the file cabinet gets it. If paper could cry for help, my walls would vibrate with the sound.

Does this indicate a need for professional help, or is it simply evidence of the power of hormones? Or more specifically, the power of a tiny little being inside another, prompting the host to make way for something for which it's impossible to be fully prepared? A newborn only takes up about 20 inches of space, crown to toes. Why am I driven to move heaven and earth for her arrival? My, how we love our them fiercely, even before we've had the chance to touch their soft skin and feel their warm bodies in our arms.

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