The laundry is causing a crisis in my life – but not in the usual way. After much thought and discussion (well, me walking into the spare room and then the laundry room/man-cave and looking around decisively), we have decided on the room that will become the nursery.
Himself (hubby) knew that he was in for a rough week when I barged into the room while he was doing his pull-ups on the specially-installed bar in our unofficial laundry room and stared at him with wild eyes.
“It’ll have to go!”
Himself made a manful effort to not hear me.
One of the many manifestations of pregnancy crazy is “nesting” which, before I got pregnant, I always took to mean a wonderful thing that will turn the undomesticated (me) into the sort of person who will happily sort through her possessions and arrange them into a calm and ordered home that comforts all who enter.
Maybe for other women.
I’ve always been what you might call “creative” (read slob). I mean, I have a system – slobbing around the house, clothes on the bathroom floor, clothes with one more wear on the coat rack, papers that might have a use in the clutter drawer, papers that will have a use in the next year or so on my desk, and everything else on the dining room table. It’s just that there’s always something more interesting to do than clear up, like watching Game of Thrones again, or rereading Harry Potter, or staring at the press-up lizard in the garden.
That is, until the best friend sent me a picture of her new “KonMari-ed” wardrobe.
After two hours of suspicious silence in which he was left in peace, Himself decided to investigate. He walked into our bedroom to find me surrounded by a mountain of clothes, clutching old shorts and jeans and muttering somewhat manically, “Thank you. I release you. Thank you. You must go now…”
I was vaguely aware of the distant sound of my husband murmuring into his phone, “Yes, I know nesting is normal, but is THIS?”
“He walked into our bedroom to find me surrounded by a mountain of clothes, clutching old shorts and jeans and muttering somewhat manically, “Thank you. I release you. Thank you. You must go now…”
I haven’t actually gotten as far as reading Mari Kondo’s book, but I have read an article on it and I’ve listened to my friend extoll her virtues. “Does it bring me joy?” I mutter half-crazed as I wander around the house, picking up and holding everything I can get my hands on – socks, old T-shirts, mugs, pots, my husband.
I now turned my feverish eyes to the laundry room. “It’s got to go!”
“All of it!”
In my defence, the room is rather crowded. I’m not sure it’s possible to fit a baby in there at the moment, even a rather small one. The room is overflowing with electronics and ironing board and Himself’s clothes (he refuses to share a closet with me) and exercise equipment and large, exercising husband.
“We’ve got plenty of time,” muttered Himself.
I’m relatively sure that he was talking through gritted teeth was because he was doing pull-ups.
“Plenty of time?! I’m in my second trimester, I only have a few weeks where I can move around, by the time I get to my third trimester, I won’t be able to do anything. It’ll be awful! Everyone keeps telling me how awful it’ll be! Everything has to be done now! Right now!
Babe, maybe you should take a break from the exercising if it’s causing you to groan so loudly.”