Nesting

LONGLEAT, UNITED KINGDOM - JUNE 02:  Professio...
Image by Getty Images via @daylife

Tonight as I write, I’m inspired by this month’s theme from the wonderful website, Creative Every Day — which is “Nesting.”

My first nesting urges came when I was about five months pregnant with my daughter, my eldest. Walking through the mall, innocently windowshopping, I passed by a store selling all kinds of needlework kits.  Suddenly I was consumed, as if by a primal urge:  “I MUST MAKE SOMETHING FOR THE BABY!!!!” Having not exhibited a domesticated bone in my body up until that point in time, my husband thought I had been kidnapped by aliens, as I took out the darling embroidery project I had just purchased, and happily began stitching French knots.  “Who the hell are you?” I remember him saying.

I stitched like a madwoman.  I made counted cross-stitch decorations on many of her outfits, even on her pajamas.  But the one piece of evidence that survivies from that heady, stitchy time is the sampler I bought that day.  It hangs in the guest room of the home my daughter now shares with her husband.  Watch out for that nesting bug.

I’m in a new nesting phase, it seems.  It started afresh before Christmas, when I acted upon the urge to completely reorganize my office.   You can probably find chronicles of that experience on this blog.  And now, new urgency consumes me.

If you’ve been following along, you know that I have recently  (five days ago) had cataract surgery.  I wrote, half-jokingly, that I feared I would see filthy countertops and clumps of cat fur in all the corners as my vision began to improve.    As predicted, my worst fears have come to pass.  GOOD GOD the dirty floors, yes the countertops, and OY dust.  Dust, the historical nemesis of women in my family, dating back generations on both sides of the family.   My mother was famous for saying, “Just don’t move anything — then you’ll never see the dust.”  Well, that’s not working out.  I am a mover.  I move stuff, and people, and ideas, and emotions, and bodies, and intellects, and me.  Stuff gonna MOVE ’round here, y’all.  And so, cleaning, nesting, bringing order out of chaos, is now priority one.  Project status.

I’ll have to do this in stages.  Countertops and mopping the floors are the first and most urgent tasks.  I vacuumed earlier today, because I couldn’t stand it anymore.  It’s probably more than I should be doing — but I’m not gardening or working out or playing sports, which are the named prohibitions at this time, according to the post-op instructions.  The on-hands-and-knees, soul-purging scrubbing that promises salvation through spring cleaning — that will have to wait until I can bend over — also prohibited right now.  I think I can handle a little light mopping.  With many repetitions, short breaks in between.

Friends near and far have tried to support me during this crisis, advising to wait it out a few more days, suggesting perhaps a glass of wine will help.  Alas, to no avail.  I must embrace my destiny. And call the maid service to come in next week.

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