I’m tired and it’s past my bedtime. But sleep is not the joyful oblivion it used to be. The thought of building my nightly ballustrade of cushions and pillows to support my various body parts is more tiring than the idea of just staying here, on the sofa, with laptop-glazed eyes. As is the thought of having to rearrange this construction at least four times in the night, as I switch between the two sleeping positions I can now manage; and each wakening provokes a tweak on the bladder from the Bean (I’m sure she’s grabbing with both hands and giving it a good wring in there) which sends me waddling loo-wards again; and then, roused by all this activity from mother, she decides now would be a good time to dance a hornpipe against my ribs; and throughout it all my hips and my back are creaking from the strain of supporting the bump…. Well, I may as well sit here all night and blog.
Apparently at this point- 38 weeks- I should be nesting. But between a lot of zealous baby preps from both of us quite early on (baby clothes are ironed; nursery is painted; even the laundry basket is virtually empty, for the first time in years), the fact that we are both at home being jobless and loving it, and the endless efforts of G in meeting the every need of me and the house, there isn’t a great deal to actually do. I don’t think I’m experiencing a domestic nesting instinct, just as I never really had cravings (not for anything much that I wouldn’t crave anyway).
But I am experiencing a nesting instinct towards myself, if that makes sense. When the pipes froze last week and we had no bath or shower, I was gripped with panic that I would go into labour with dirty hair and hairy legs. This simply would not do! Not because I was embarassed about people seeing me like that in the hospital, but because I wanted to feel nice during and after the labour and birth. The same goes for my fingernails, feet and other extremities. I want to be groomed. I want my favourite maternity pyjamas to be folded away in my hospital bag ready to don after the birth- never mind that it means I can’t wear them in the mean time. I’ve manicured my nails, and toyed with the idea of shelling out for a pedicure. I’ve booked a hair appointment for tomorrow and I’m going for a blunt fringe again, never mind that it’s going to get sweaty and tangled and probably not be washed or styled for weeks post partum. And never mind that the only people actually seeing my at close quarters these days tend to be very close friends and family, who have all seen me at my worst. It’s strange.
Call me naive- new mothers are forever bemoaning the fact that personal grooming goes out of the window (maybe I jsut want to get a head start, then), and I’m quite sure that my personal appearance will be the last thing on my mind when I’m actually in labour. Call me vain. But I would argue, technically, that since I am currently a nest for Bean, my “nesting instinct” does in fact make sense.