Ok. So. It's coming on sooner, much much sooner, than with my first pregnancy, but I am nesting and it's no joke. It's so not funny. I have been hating every square inch of this apartment; I have my eye on four large pieces of our furniture that I'm burning to revamp/refurbish; I want to throw this couch out and never lay eyes on it again; I've started a Goodwill box that about half of my clothes are currently in; the kitchen MUST must must must be clean at all times or I will have a flippin' meltdown I tell you. I'm hormonal - something I've never really experienced this heavily before (except perhaps directly post-partum. there are some stories there.) - and the only real option I have to alleviate the stress that is nesting is to make things clean. No Jess, put the primer down. You can't paint the walls. Stop hauling the sectional out section by section, we can't afford a new couch.
At my tiny tiny private high school, the whole school would gather for assembly every morning to do a daily dedication, followed my announcements and oftentimes a quick address from the headmaster. He used to say something, frequently enough that it would make me do a (mental) eye-roll, that resonates with me more now than it ever did ten years ago.
External order produces internal order.
At the time, I believe he was addressing the omnipresence of locker crap overflow into the halls and our slovenly desks that looked like they'd been ransacked. We were a small community; clutter made things claustrophobic. But now, as I look at the fruits of Sean's and my Saturday labors, I understand the second part of that phrase.
Walking into our apartment the last few weeks has been an immediate downer. It's been messy, cluttered, cramped, and nothing I want in terms of a home. My mood would turn nasty and I'd be a wench. There was no external order, (neatness, really), so I was not at peace with myself. After a quickish she-might-actually-be-manic-meltdown to Sean (who was not feeling well this weekend), I attacked the kitchen with a vengeance, then spent an hour and a half cleaning the bathroom, focusing my efforts on the shower/bathtub, which hadn't seen a real scrubbing in months.
Sean obviously sensed my crazy, and went out and rented a steam cleaner for our disgusting carpets.
All the earthly possession stacked not-precariously in the uncarpeted area
All those white spots? That's where we sprayed carpet cleaner. THAT'S HOW MANY SPOTS THERE WERE.
Helpful and Helpfuller or Vacuum Cords are Necklaces Too
Trendsetting with his cuffed jeans while Scaredy-Curious looks on
Dad's doing all the work - muahahah.
Cleaning is boring. I have a new playcubby. I'll be over here being unproductive.
There's endless upon eternal upon neverending things that I want and need and have to do with this place, but a little cleanliness goes a long long way right now, and I'm feeling a little more restful. I followed up our cleanfest with confession (all by my lonesome), and BAM. Internal order. As part of my penance (am I allowed to tell you this?? oh well...) the priest told me to do something fun just for me. He advised me, in heavily accented English, that if I let stress build (ok, I must have sounded stressed out? Because I did not confess stress as a sin.) then I will be like the balloon getting bigger and bigger and bigger until I pop. I smiled behind the screen at this analogy, because over the months that's probably just about exactly what I'll look like, but he's right.
After I left, I got a M&M McFlurry (judge me.) and went to my favorite park, parked the car, turned off the radio, and ate ice cream. I probably looked the profound lurk as I did not exit my vehicle, but I felt like it'd be more awkward for me to sit on a park bench by myself, eating ice cream, than to creep on people from behind my windshield, eating ice cream.
This day could not have been any more gorgeous so what the frick was I complaining about. Clean apartment + clean soul + McFlurry = External Order + Internal Order + Tastebuds Tingling with the Delight of Rebellion = Happy Pregnant Camper = Not-Wench Wife = Not-Scared-for-His-Life Husband = Blissful Family Unit.
It's just math, people.