Drug I Need

What do meth addicts and pregnant women have in common? Nesting. I'm a freakin' machine.

We had a minor repair done on our kitchen wall earlier this week. The repair guy patched up a hole and said he'd come back the next day to paint over the patch. Paint you say? The next morning I went to the hardware store and picked up gallons and gallons of paint. I've spent the past three days painting our apartment. I've got my bathroom done, the kitchen, dining area, living room and another gallon of paint with Spike's bathroom written all over it. I feel like I'm on every "upper" imaginable. Or maybe it's just the paint fumes...

Spike, of course, thinks I'm psycho. I can't blame him. I do look absurd in my tight sweat pants, tiny painter's shirt and backwards cap jumping up and down with my roller brush trying to reach the ceiling without breaking my water. I imagine I look something of a cross between Rocky and Old Mother Hubbard at this stage.

Of course there are ulterior motives. Knowing how life goes, I figured this baby will come at the most inopportune time. No better way to go into labor than start a time consuming project, right? I had just finished taking all the fixtures down, taping all the trim and pulling out the furniture when the painful contractions started. I grimaced, and popped open the paint can. I called the baby's bluff and 15 minutes later the contractions stopped just as quickly as they started. Wuss baby.

Our apartment now looks fantastic. My little nesting spurt has only been interupped by mandatory breaks to elevate my feet and drain the fluid every few hours. It's a good thing I'm too pregnant to see my maligned feetsies because this week my toes have turned into swollen, angry, nubs. They'll just have to deal with it. I've still got three rooms left to paint.

I wish the nesting had kicked in a little bit earlier. I've been in denial about having this kid for most of my pregnancy and it wasn't until two weeks ago that I finally realized I had NOTHING ready. Unfortunately, having a baby isn't something you just show up for. You have to bring the metaphorical seven layer dip. I hate making seven layer dip. But the nursery is now stocked with tiny diapers, generic white onesies, and a stockpile of breast pads that would accommodate a Vermont dairy farm. Is there anything else?

Sitting still long enough to write this blog entry has been an extreme test of will. I'm going crazy to get back out there and NEST. It's only 10:30 pm, I could probably knock out another bathroom tonight. Adios suckers!