My Version of Nesting

It might just be me, but I find the end of pregnancy so much more exhausting than those early days of new, sweet smelling, always-feeding baby. Perhaps it is because we’ve always had people waiting, and waiting, and waiting for our wee ones to come into the world and, personally, I prefer to not put a date on it. Or, perhaps it is because every single baby has waited until the very last minute to find that ideal position. Procrastinators, just like their Mama.

Either way, I could happily spend these final weeks at home, getting everything in its place. I’m not a hyper-nester; I’m not a super tidy person in general, I suppose. But something about a baby coming does keep me standing at the counter baking, trying (and failing) to keep up with the dish pile, and always finding things that need a place.

Oh, who am I kidding, if the dish pile is ever smaller than yesterday’s and the floor gets swept, it’s a good day. My version of nesting is keeping up with those two things, making sure we have diapers and little tiny jammies out and ready, and baking up a storm. Even the baking doesn’t last anymore. Every huge batch of this, that, or the other disappears twice as fast as I think it will and I wonder how it could be I who is growing a little life and not these ravenous, not-even-close-to-teenage boys.

This morning it was fried eggs, those oat biscuits above, and yogurt. Our seven-year-old ate twice as much as I did and just now, not more than 2 hours after breakfast, proclaimed he is hungry. It’s a good thing he’s so useful around here, and frankly, would probably make a better housekeeper than I.