I keep waiting for the “nesting” urge to take over. So far, my sink continues to fill with dishes — honest to God, does it ever end? Is the sink ever going to be empty again? Laundry is still strewn across the bedroom floor. The tables are still fluttered with stuff — you know, newspapers, coupons from the Welcome Wagon, more dishes, a box of cookies, unopened junk mail. The bed doesn’t get made every day, so Chris bemoans the twisted state of the blankets whenever he gets into bed (okay, I really do leave them a total mess, because I find few things more comforting than hugging them like a big, fluffy body pillow). I haven’t replaced the Vanity Fair on top of the toilet in two months, because the most recent one is somewhere on one of the tables. We’ve got two boxes that need unpacking and nowhere to unpack them. Shoes are starting to tiptoe out of the coat closet, because goddammit, my winter boots kept finding their way into the far back corner and I just can’t bend that far.
But the nursery?
The nursery is spotless. I dust and sweep in there regularly. All the newborn-sized clothes is folded and tucked into the top drawer of her dresser, while the other things are hung up by size. I haven’t done the picture art project yet (whoops!) or managed to get the sticky price tag residue off the glass piece I bought (nail polish remover?), nor have I printed out all the family pics Chris has been begging me to do for two months now for the frames that we bought to decorate our living room.
Maybe I’m just fucking lazy, and using this “I don’t have the nesting instinct” thing as a cop-out. I think this is the most realistic explanation.