11.

Nesting

I now have first hand experience to tell you that the nesting instincts I have so often read about, are in fact real. As I look around my reasonably spotless room, crumbs, marks and tiny smears appear as though hi lighted with a luminous yellow marker. Many times has my partner awoken to me lecturing the kittens for flicking their litter out of the tray, or worse are the days when I’ve stood, hoover in one hand, cloth in the other, waiting for the smallest crack in the eyelids so I can delegate his chores as if it were an emergency situation. But to my progesterone fuelled body, it is…because the living room, although hoovered yesterday, is a pigsty. And the kitchen floor, although scrubbed a mere hour ago, needs a mop. And I swear if I have to deal with one more nasty litter tray…Now, for those who have had the misfortune of lodging with me during my student days will agree that this behaviour is completely uncharacteristic of me..to say the least. Hard proof that the nesting instinct is a very real beast. All in preparation for my newest member, who will undoubtedly check the cracks behind the radiator, to arrive..and shit hits the fan, quite literally.

To be honest, perhaps nesting has its uses. Because for that short time, my mind is given a bit of respite from the constant nagging of the impending birth. Labour looms over my rounded body like a dark cloud, daring to rain. Every day I wake up with slight cramps and think to myself, well this it. Today’s the day. Wrong. Today isn’t, yesterday definitely wasn’t and next week I will still quite possibly be balancing my sketchbook on top of my oversized stomach, whilst the empty cot stands as a focal point in the room. This has to be one of the most frustrating, nerve wracking but yet exciting experiences of a woman’s life. It’s a calming before a storm..the house feels silent, empty. Time stands absolutely still as we all just wait for this monumental, life-changing event to begin.

So the days are long and quite lonely, as are the uncomfortable nights. I waddle to the university library, hoping for productivity, but mentally I’m drained most days. Of course I find moments where my creativity is handed back to me, and these are great bursts of energy and excitement over the possibilities. But should I relent and let myself melt into the furniture watching endless episodes on Netflix, tsunamis of quilt crash over me….I should be using this time before her arrival, researching, writing, filming..or I  will fail.

It’s a battle which will only become more difficult when my beautiful co-dependant daughter is added to the mix, absorbing my time and energy. Being an artist and a mother, both requires time, effort and determination. It will be a balancing act on a very thin tightrope, I imagine I will not always get it right, but I honestly don’t want to fall. I love her already, my tiny stranger…whom I’m completely unprepared for really. Half of me is terrified every time any signs of labour crop up, the other is repeatedly bouncing on the exercise ball, willing to relieve the bowling ball pressure in my pelvis. But as much as you make hourly investigations into the size and shape of your bump or google every gloriously detailed symptom, the same result appears, she will come when she is ready….so carry on nesting, mother.