Friday 29 January 2016
7 days until my due date.
42 days since my last blog post.
39 weeks pregnant.
259 days of pregnancy elapsed.
3 weeks maximum until our little man is here…
It has become ridiculously easy to measure my life in terms of how pregnant I am or, given the small amount of time I now have left pre-baby, how many days we have to get our arses organised.
Light cleaning has come easy. I’m on top of the washing for the first time since (probably) our honeymoon, the dishes are always done and most of downstairs is spotless. To my standards. Maybe not my mum’s, but that’s a whole other blog.
Tidying however is a whole other matter. My nesting instinct seems to exclusively apply to having every surface crumb free and smelling like bleach, every baby item washed and sterilised and the freezer stocked with home cooked meals. But when it comes to actually lugging objects around the house or tidying out the wardrobes (a job now four weeks in the making and still not complete) my motivation is somewhat lacking.
I’d hoped the last few weeks of pregnancy would turn me into a nesting whirlwind. Sending me blitzing through the house until the place was unrecognisable and food could be eaten off the floor. I was relying on this instinct to get the house baby ready. I feel liked I’ve been lied to. That the last few productive weeks of pregnancy were mis-sold.
Don’t get me wrong, we’ve undergone quite a transformation in the last few weeks. An ikea shop has helped us solve some big storage problems. The lack of requirement to feed my car for the daily commute has allowed us to spend some money titivating. And we’ve finally swapped out our bathroom carpets (why, oh why, do people ever lay carpet in a bathroom?) and replaced the carpet Logan destroyed in his early years with some brand new laminate.
But instead of jumping out of bed ready to tackle the wardrobe disaster I find myself dreaming up longer walks to take the dog on or procrastinating by writing a blog post under the delusion that because two people have mentioned it’s been a while since I last did one that I am missed!
I suspect, slightly, that my husband actually has more nesting instinct in his little finger than I have in my whole body. It was him that pushed us to finish the nursery, him who spends every single weekend and some work nights getting stuck into DIY or attempting to baby proof our reptile enclosures. This naturally makes me feel incredibly guilty when I wake up as he’s leaving for work and realise I haven’t even made him any lunch for the day!
My determination to sort the spare room and the wardrobe pre-baby has to kick me up the arse at some point in the next week. Failing that, I need to hear some stern words from the hubby, otherwise I’ll be jumping up for night feeds and climbing over piles of clothes to find the baby.
Maybe I’ll get on it now. Right after some cheese on toast. Can’t starve the little man, can I?