I have a genius idea for a new reality show, titled simply, “Nesters”.
The show would feature exclusively women in their last trimester as they attempt all manner of inane cleaning and organizing projects, despite the chaos these endeavors wreak on their swollen bodies, their pets and most of all, their marriages.
I would be happy to take one for the team and be featured on the premiere. My episode would include footage of the following events:
- Me at 11:30pm last night, wearing one of Adam’s shirts (because none of mine fit) and his boxers too (see previous) furiously scrubbing down our bathtub and shower because I noticed while peeing that the tiles didn’t look “shiny” enough.
- A time-lapse montage of my laundry basket, which now never has more than 10-15 items of clothing in it any any time before I whisk it away to be washed. The new drying rack has only served to exacerbate this issue because beforehand these transformations from serene 8 months pregnant lady to possessed-laundress were at least confined to whenever it was sunny enough to hang our clothes. Now that I can conveniently hang my laundry inside, at any time day or night, shit’s gotten a bit ridiculous.
- Twenty minutes ago when I was vacuuming and went to vacuum the couch (What? You don’t vacuum your couch? Ridiculous!) but there was a rather large 32 year old man in my way trying to watch a movie after a long day of work. But rather than decide to do this strange task later, I shrieked at him unintelligibly until he reluctantly contorted himself into all sorts of strange positions so that I could vacuum under him. Then, still not satisfied, I forcibly ripped off his socks despite his protests, because they were covered in dog hair. Then I washed them. (Obviously.)
- The fact that I’ve cooked more in the past week than…ever. I made a lasagna, froze it, then made another one and froze that too. Then I made and froze several jars of broccoli cheese soup. Then I whipped up 24 sweet potato and black bean burritos and wedged them in between the aforementioned lasagnas and jars of soup. Then I made chocolate chip cookies and froze the dough in ready-bake balls so that when I don’t have goddamn diabeetus anymore I can cook a few at a time to enjoy with a big glass of almond milk.
While I was typing out this ridiculousness you see above, (which is only a partial list, you guys) I realized something: Nesting is entirely about control.
Did you know this already? I feel like people knew this and I’m just figuring it out now but please bear with me as I process this discovery.
My nesting is being kicked to extremes because I have lost more and more control with each passing week and although I’m doing my best to adjust, my god do I loathe it. In a last futile attempt to reclaim that control I am doing what I do best, I’m cleaning. And planning. And preparing.
Like a boss.
It’s like in my head it makes perfect sense that although I no longer have any say in what I eat, when the baby comes, or even what part of my body the baby is coming out of, these things can somehow be balanced out by the fact that the cupboard under my bathroom sink is now meticulously organized into pretty baskets by category (hair care, nail care, first aid etc).
Or the fact that in the past week I have purchased approximately 48 microfiber cloths and stashed them in strategic locations throughout my house and/or car, in the event that anything needs emergency dusting.
I’m sure this is all very reassuring to our fetus. “Hey, Baby! I may not be able to grow a placenta in the right place, or even properly regulate my blood sugars, and lord knows I leak electrolytes like a sieve, but rest assured that you will not be coming home to a place where the tupperware is all tossed haphazardly together into a drawer! NOT ON MY WATCH! No, in THIS house it’s neatly stacked and organized by size and function!”
Don’t worry Demon Baby, I got this.
Anyway please don’t steal my idea for “Nesters”, I’m currently putting the finishing touches on my pitch video (editing out all of my huffing and puffing is taking longer than expected.)
And, if you come to my house in the next three and a half weeks, please don’t be insulted if I hover around you with a lint roller and a spray bottle of vinegar before ripping the half-eaten chocolate bar out of your hand and freezing it.
(Also if you’re looking for your coat, it’s being washed.)