Nesting

Lately I’ve been hit by the nesting urge. Last weekend Mike spent Saturday afternoon cleaning while I was at my shower, and on Sunday I began rearranging and clearing out Philo’s room. I find myself going in there at least once a day and just wandering around or adjusting things. Today I was seriously pissed because I had to go to work…I had wanted to spend the day at home organizing Philo’s diaper bag. When Mike told me that he might be going out this weekend with a friend I got pretty excited because I could spend a lot of time in Philo’s room cleaning, folding things, or counting diapers without his interference.

The odd thing is, a few weeks ago I regarded Philo’s room as nothing but a storage space. I knew that although the real estate market is sluggish and there was a good chance we’d be staying in our apartment for a few months, there was always the chance our building would be sold and we’d be given 30 days’ notice to move out. I figured, why bother to set it all up? Philo will be living in his pack-n-play in our bedroom in the beginning anyway. I thought I’d organize the room enough so that the clothes, diapers, and other gear would be accessible and not worry about anything beyond that. Now, though, I’m wondering about the best way to hang up the pictures I painted for him, and wondering what color to paint his book shelf.

Last night I informed Mike that I wanted a feeding station in Philo’s room. When I took the breastfeeding class they said that it would be nice to have a quiet place with a comfortable chair, a table nearby, and no distractions. Mike had offered to set up a place for me before, but I refused. Now I wanted one. He asked me why.

“Well,” I said, “I imagine your parents or friends might want to come over, and eventually Philo will get hungry. It would be nice to have a place to go so I don’t have to keep whipping out a boob in front of company.” I am classy.

Mike offered to bring up the big La-Z-Boy recliner that’s in the basement, and I glared at him and said that the scale of that chair was wrong. I needed a specific chair, and I needed him to take me to a thrift store so I could find an appropriate candidate. He agreed, but little did he know that not only would we hit the thrift store, but that we'd also look at other thrift stores and if we didn't see a suitable chair, I would start searching Craigslist. I also need a small table, but I didn't have the heart to tell him that too.

The nesting urge is weird. All I know is, I've never been so content to clean.