Happy Friday, world! We made it through another week. We got through the lions and lambs of March and have entered April showers. I’ve got to tell you, I’ve never realized, in 28 years of life, how fast a week REALLY is until you attach a number to it. I’m 27 weeks. 27. That’s a number alright – one number closer to 40.
40 is the magic number. 40 is when we start the count over again…but instead of weeks, we’re counting minutes until the next feeding. The scary part is, sometimes we don’t even get to finish the count. I’ve heard some people stop counting at 37 or 35 or even 30! Those poor women have been shafted out of a solid 10 weeks of silence and solitude. How unfair is that!? It’s comparable to a stellar game of hide-and-seek and you have the perfect hiding spot all picked out, but the stupid counter counts too fast and quits at 87 instead of their promised 100 and you don’t quite get yourself situated into your sweet spot so you lose right away. Dumb game. It could’ve been perfect.
Tonight, Nate witnessed the ultimate in what the baby-world refers to as “nesting.” I was in a mood after leaving work to find my car had a flat tire, riding to the SA on my rim, getting just enough air to make it to the tire shop by my house just as my “hey-you’re-out-of-gas” light came on. So, I figured, with the way the night was going, I should just buckle down and enjoy the ride. My new plan for this lovely Friday night: I will nest.
Nesting is the equivilent of what non-pregnant women do when they clean. It’s a safe, non-habit-forming way to relieve stress. We don’t expect men to understand how it all works, but for me, after a rough day in the cubicle, nothing felt as good as sipping on a glass of red wine while dusting the coffee table, changing bedsheets, walking the dog, and aggressively shoving laundry into the dryer. So, since I am now forced to bypass the wine, I grabbed my husband and whined instead. I wanted to get the nursery done. It’s been so close for so long – let’s just finish this sucker! So, nester wife drags nester husband into her evening of nesting hell.
Nesting always begins with a trip to Target in our house. Tonight’s trip involved a small car, a GIANT box, and one (maybe two) mini arguments. We finally bought our rocker and ottoman for the baby room. We got home and Nate had it put together in about 12 minutes. Bob Vila he is not, so this was impressive! But, why stop there? I moved on to the rest of the room – emptying closets, hanging clothes (are you supposed to hang onesies?), strategically placing stuffed animals in the crib (you know, so they’d look like they had their cute little arms around each other…c’mon, every woman does it!).We hung our animal paintings on the wall (approximately 2.5 inches between each frame) and carefully rearranged the blankets (alligator on the left, elephant on the right).
But, the moment I truly picked up on my self-neuroses was when I caught myself angling the rocker at 43 degrees, no! 45 degrees…NO! 90 degrees. Yes, 90. NO NO NO! Back to 45 degrees. After I had tilted and turned that rocker so many different directions, sat in it to see which spot on the wood floor it creaked the least, and played with the ottoman so it didn’t shrink the room but still allowed for enough space to squeeze into the seat and get comfortable with a baby in tow…THAT was my moment. It all dawned on me…
Approximately 3 seconds after I bring that baby boy into this house, none of this will matter. Despite the angle of the rocker, the room will feel small. It will be covered in burp rags and teeny tiny socks and poopy diapers, not to mention two insanely sleepy new parents and their crazy jealous puppy. And it won’t matter how life-like their poses, the stuffed monkeys in the crib will need to be removed due to the potential suffocation hazard. Argh. The rules.The rules and realities are ruining my night of nesting.
So fine. I’ll cave. Nothing’s perfect. There’s no such thing as a pefect nursery, a perfect mother, or perfect timing. 40 isn’t a “magic number.” It’s just a number that comes after 30. It might buy you more prep time – a little more time to read your final chapters and shop for your ideal diaper bag – but whether it be 20, 30, or 40, there is no such thing as perfection when it comes to preparing for new life, especially the first time.
Timing is what you make of it. I spend a lot of mine sorting and organizing. Maybe this makes me a neurotic nerd. Maybe it gives me peace of mind. Maybe I don’t care what it does. At the end of the day, I feel a little better about what I’ve accomplished and maybe, just maybe, baby will appreciate it. Even if he doesn’t compliment us on the maticulously-painted stripes of his nursery wall the day he arrives home, we are proud of where we’re at and what we’ve done, and that should help baby (and co-nesters) sleep soundly through the night.