My life lately is a series of resting and nesting.
My body is officially out of my own control (even more so than in the obvious way as I stare down at my 9-months-pregnant belly). Like a robot, I move toward my linen closet at the crack of dawn and start taking it apart. Most people are in their beds snoring and I’m surrounded by towels and linens in my hallway, on a mission to make room for my new baby’s things.
The next day I can barely place dishes in the dishwasher I’m so exhausted and unmotivated. And so nothing gets cleaned.
A day or two later, I’m scrubbing my fridge at 6:30 a.m., hesitantly peering into leftover containers and surrounded by jars of barbecue sauce and pickles (both of which I’ve eaten massive amounts of in the past 9 months) from an uncomfortable position on the floor.
Next, I’m face-down on the couch praying for the labor Gods to take me.
This has been my life for the past week, my 39th week of pregnancy.
Yet, even on the resting days, I catch myself calculating the next nesting target.