I'm not Nesting...really

So a couple of my friends have asked lately, "are you nesting yet?" And I keep replying, "nah, just feel like I should start thinking about where all the baby stuff is going to go." But today, I realized that I am nesting. Might as well be gathering twigs at this point and getting ready to lay an egg, because I compulsively cleaned the house today. And not just the usual pick-up the toys, load the diswasher kind of cleaning. No, no. It was a full-on scrub the floors, organize the bathrooms kind of cleaning spree. I was frazzled by lunchtime. Not only that, but I decided that I absolutely MUST find a changing table. It had become an obsession, really, since I decided two days ago that I couldn't possibly bring another baby into this household without having a place to centralize all diapering of all children. It seemed like a brilliant organizational move on my part. But finding said changing table has turned into a scavenger hunt of epic proportions.

The hunt started on cragislist, an obvious choice. Where better to find a barely used, incredibly cheap yet sturdy piece of baby furniture? No luck. Then on to Baby Depot at Burlington Coat Factory. Strike two. More strikes at Wal-Mart, Target, even SmartyPants. In desperation, I remembered the small and disorganized section of Big Lots that has baby stuff. What the heck, it was already way past Adam's naptime, and scorching hot to boot. Why not lug in all three kids on the off-chance my prize would be there. Lo and Behold, there it sat, under a tattered carseat box....a single, simple wooden changing table. The price is right....can it be? The only glich...it's the wrong color. I am desperate to find one that does NOT have a natural wood finish..I need a darker color to coordinate with all of my other baby furniture. Oh well. I'm too disheartened to look any more. This changing table is MINE.

You would think the insanity would stop there. But when I go overboard, I go all the way over. As in, there is no life-saving device out there big enough to reel me back in. I lug my treasure into the house this afternoon and decide there's no need to wait for David to put it together. I'm a modern woman. I can friggin' do it myself. So an hour and half, a broken fingernail and a migraine later, the changing table sits-fully assembled mind you-ready to accept stinky butts in all its glory. But the shelves below it look embarrassingly bare. Of course. This means I need coordinating baskets to store all the necessary items: diapers, wipes, butt paste, and the straight jacket they'll need to put me in when this is all said and done.

By now it is 6 o'clock, I've fed the kids a hasty dinner (which Adam promptly hurled to the ground) and have, in my dementia, loaded everyone up and headed to Target. It's perfect...I'll find my baskets, some baby detergent, and a coming home outfit for our new little princess. Nevermind Adam is probably teething and is so uncontrollably grumpy that I hardly recognize him or that Isaac has decided the phrase "don't touch" means to grab everything within reaching distance and give a mighty tug.

But we're home now, I got my baskets, detergent AND outfit, by God, and I am about to commence washing and sorting the baby clothes, socks and receiving blankets. I am a woman on a mission. A madwoman, perhaps, but that's a whole other story. Why do they call it nesting, anyway? It seems the phrase "compulsively organizing to the point of self-destruction" would be more accurate. In my case, anyway.