Sunday, August 22, 2010

Baseboards and Ceiling Fans: A Commentary On Nesting.

Within the short period of time in my life that I've found myself preparing for the arrival of children, I've consistently been compelled to take on large home projects, or cleaning duties. My first time around the bend, I believe that my nesting lasted into the first eight months of Allison's life, when all of a sudden I declared war on my kitchen cabinets AND her nursery a mere couple of weeks before her christening. I'm feeling somehow a bit different this time around though. Be it the heat, or keeping up with a two year old already, or the fact that I'm working literally up until four days before surgery, the will is strong, but the body is weakening.

Eva is scheduled to be here in nine days. Which means we'll be bringing her back to the house in about eleven days. My window of cleaning opportunity is very, very limited. I thought about actually staying home from work instead of going this week, in order to make sure that every nook and cranny was properly Lysol'd, dusted, polished and shining. But I'm staring down the barrel of the reality that will be an official full house, and my body's lack of physical will is actually dominating over my mental anxiety about dust and disorganization.

And so, this weekend, I am rallying the troops. And by troops, I mean my husband and a 2 year old.

I hear stories all the time about women who've steam cleaned their carpets, gotten on ladders (alone of course, not to be seen) to clean ceiling fans, hand washing their cars inside and out, two days before giving birth. It seems that most of us would rather house keep our way into labor than any other way. Walking, you say? No. Sex? Are you joking?? Please hand me my Swiffer and my toilet bowl brush, and my water will break in twenty minutes. Maybe it's only a subconscious ploy at inducing labor, or the Big Man's divine design that creeps its way into our heads at the most physically inopportune time that provokes this nonsensical passion for Pine Sol and on-your-knees scrubbing. In the argument of "Is God Man or Woman?", it'd be easy to convince anyone that He rules. No woman would knowingly place this brain lock on another woman. If She were sitting at the head of the table, She'd have made it something that a pregnant woman's partner would have eating at THEM for nine plus months. We carry the fetus, you re-organize what's hiding under the bed.

I wonder why we as women care so much. Is it really important that the grout is bleached white on the kitchen counter? No, probably not. But perhaps it's the idea that we think, or feel that the opportunity to do these incredible cleaning tasks are going to be all but completely diminished once our baby is here. We may never see the mop come out again. Who would have time to run the vacuum when there's hardly time to brush your teeth? Horror stories of going days on end without a shower or a wink of sleep permeate an expectant mother's brain, be she a first timer, or a multi-birth veteran. Then we get home. And we learn that a baby will fit perfectly in a papoose across your chest, and sleep soundly through the running of the vacuum, folding of laundry. There is time somewhere between sanitizing bottles and watching Tinker Bell with your older daughter to grab a quick shower, or go to the bathroom alone. But, hey, at least you don't have to stare at those baseboards, or wonder about all that dust on the ceiling fans anymore.

I digress.

Lists are made, plans of action are formed and as Ms. O'Hara might have said under other circumstances, "as God as my witness, I will never be defeated by a water spot again!" Here is hoping that Eva will appreciate all the last minute hard work that's about to ensue today, tomorrow and for the next eight days. I know that when I'm awake for mid-night feedings, the last place I'll be compelled to look is where the wall meets the carpet. As pretty as a clean house can be, it'll never be as pretty as when a baby comes home to live in it.

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