Forgive me if this post doesn't make any sense, I've mistakenly created a toxic cloud by mixing the fumes from Windex, 409, and Pledge.
I don't think nesting has anything to do with some ancient biological urge to prepare one's home for the arrival of a new baby. I think it is a more 21st century phenomenon caused by being confined to one's messy messy house during those last few, incredibly cranky and impatient, weeks of pregnancy. When everyone encourages you to get off your feet and relax but instead you fly into a near pre-eclamptic rage when you walk into the kitchen and simultaneously step on a pile of Cheerios, trip over your flip flops, and send an avalanche of junk mail sliding to the floor from the kitchen counter.
Suddenly, the thought of adding some burp rags, takeout containers, and nine hundred members of your extended family to your usual level of chaos make you wish they still knocked women unconsious during labor and delivery. And that they could do it this afternoon.
So I've been doing a little straightening up. Getting rid of clutter, sweeping, wiping down the kitchen counters (which required a blow torch and pneumatic pressure washer).
I washed the freaking WINDOWS. Even the one where there was a scorpion stuck between the glass and the screen that I was positive could find a way to sting (read: kill) me through the glass if it really wanted to. I did not realize (but probably should have) that getting a dog and having kids would mean twice-weekly window cleaning would be necessary. (Although I still don't clean them twice a week, I like to wait until I can see the nose/tongue/finger prints from the car as I am pulling into the driveway before taking care of it. I was recently spurred to action by my friend who cleans the windows and vaccuums the stairs every single day. Ask me when the last time I vaccuumed the stairs was... I think it was the fourteenth of NEVER. Which is why it looks like we chose to carpet the stairs in dog hair).
As a special bonus, with all the walking around, reaching, and squatting required to get things just right I'm sure my cervix has taken a pounding. I'm hoping for 3 cm by Friday. Or ten. Ten would be even better.
And also? All those Papa John's coupons that have been falling off the fridge and driving me CRAZY for the last few weeks? Are expired. Time required to put them in the recycle bin? Two seconds. Go me.
And now it is time for my reward--for cleaning TWO ROOMS in my house plus the windows, which still took all morning as I had to take frequent breaks to catch my breath and check my email--lunch at Pot Belly, whose deli mustard I could eat with a spoon.