Urban Dictionary defines nesting as the "ritual performed by pregnant women in ridding the house, the 'nest', from anything potentially harmful to the soon to be born child".
Judging by my behaviour in the past few weeks, things that are "potentially harmful to the soon to be born child" include: messy wardrobes, disorganised drawers, dust bunnies, mismatched hangers, clothes that are not colour-coordinated, bookshelves weighed down by books that are not arranged in alphabetical order and a spice cabinet that does not boast pretty labels in interesting fonts.
I can't seem to stop in my mission to rid the house of chaos, despite warning signals that range from an aching lower back to an onslaught of unexpected and early contractions. (Which, incidentally, means such severe pain in the abdominal area that standing upright becomes near to impossible. I always wondered how I'd be able to tell whether or not I was having contractions and now that I've felt them, I don't know what I was ever worried about.)
Mr T, watching in horror as I flit from cupboard to shelf to drawer in my efforts to purge and leave in my wake a sensible system of organisation, has been begging me to stop. He says he is confused as to why I have now, after more than two and a half years of marriage, decided that I must organise our wedding photos into gargantuan wedding albums, complete with labels and photo captions. "Is this really the time for this? Shouldn't you be resting like the doctor said?"
Psssht. What does Mr T or a doctor - a male one, at that - know of this pressing need I have to get as much of my life in order before it descends into chaos? Soon, I will lose all semblance of control to a pint-size dictator who will decide when we wake, sleep, eat and possibly breathe. I will not have the luxury to readdress a drawer's purpose or refold linens just so or dump all my toiletries on the bathroom floor and then take my time rearranging them in pretty baskets. Those days, I have been told confidently by new parents, will soon be long gone.
So far, it has been futile to try to instil this sense of urgency in my husband, regardless of his impending status as "father". Nesting, as I understand it, only strikes the pregnant woman, so Mr T is allowed to remain clueless.
Until I caught him walking around the house muttering to himself under his breath.
"What are you doing?"
He lifted a finger up to me, indicating that I should stay quiet, and continued muttering a little while longer before jotting something on to a piece of paper that looked like it might be home to a list. Then, he announced, "I didn't want to lose count; I was counting how many electricity sockets we had in the wall, to know how many of those baby proofing things we need to buy. Now I have to count sharp corners." And the muttering resumed.
I hadn't even thought that far.
