nesting

We've all heard of the term nesting. It sounds peaceful and sentimental and lovely. I picture this non-swollen pregnant woman with perfectly done hair gently folding fresh, expensive onesies and placing little porcelain Precious Moments dolls on a shelf. Everything is white and serene and calm.

Friends, let's get real. Picture that scene. Now picture the complete opposite. Now label that opposite picture with my name and add an additional side scene with my husband grasping for sanity and my toddler being parented by Disney and PBS (or sleeping in a drawer - more on the crib to big girl bed transition another time). 

That's real deal life in the Link home right now. Because, you see, we live in a rental that smells like cat and we're moving four days before my scheduled induction (and of course there's the possibility that, God forbid, the child comes naturally beforehand). Our nursery (see also, holding cell) is a certified wreck. There are currently three floor lamps, two strollers, two bins of Jeremiah's summer school supplies, and one busted standing AC unit from our dear landlords from when the AC didn't work for over a month housed in there - among a slew of other garbage. Check out instagram for the full effect. And yes, I'm still battling a minor case of PTSD from the AC ordeal, thank you for asking.

I'd love to be the peaceful mother nesting til her heart's content, but people, the poor boy doesn't technically even have a room yet. And our rental smells like cat. I just googled nesting to make sure it's an actual thing and that I'm not crazy for having this desire. Oh it's a thing; however, apparently most normal women nest in productive baby-prep ways. Doing loads of laundry, deep cleaning, freezing meals, etc. Not one place have I read sew new pillow covers, reupholster chairs for the first time, spray paint anything that's not nailed down. If you're one of my loyal followers and have read the one and only post before this, you recall that I hate sewing and spray painting. I'm nesting like an actual insane person. Because not sure if I mentioned this, but our rental smells like cat. Not only that, our clothes smell like cat. We smell like cat. I'm not exaggerating. We went away to my in-laws for the weekend and I smelled my clothes when we got there. Cat. What would solidify my insanity once and for all is if I were to do the typical laundry and cleaning type of nesting and expect different results - in this case, expect things to actually be clean. Baby boy ain't getting a crib sheet on his bed til we're out of this dump. And if he comes early, I suppose it'll build up his immune system and we won't have to worry about pet allergies later in life. Fingers crossed.

So for those of you crushing under the weight of the non-swollen nesting fantasy, take heart. Next time you question how prepared you are or if you'll be ready for the arrival of your precious child, picture me in all my reality. Picture my poor husband, spray painting a chair coral. Picture my traumatized resilient toddler, singing along to commercial jingles because she's seen them enough to know them. And rest assured I may not be swollen this time around (thank you, Jesus), but you better believe I'm on my third outfit of the day because I'm sweating that much.