The nesting has definitely begun. As most of you know, Donovan and I have been living in an active construction zone on and off since the fall of 2000 when we bought our first “fixer upper.” Three houses and a lot of joint compound later, I am ready to replace the air compressor with a crib. And we will. For now, I look for opportunities to primp and pretty this nest of mine. I keep making pillow covers from my vintage fabrics to throw on the couch, on the beds and move around the house in frantic must-decorate-now mode. This, I suppose, could qualify as nesting. After all, we are only now beginning to open the boxes in the attic to whip out the mantel knick-knacks and hang things on the walls. And we are working very hard to get these never-ending projects wrapped up before baby comes home. Sometimes I stand in the doorway of the soon-to-be baby’s room and rearrange furniture in my mind. Should the crib go on this wall or that wall? But what really hit me as being “nesty” was finding myself rocking and singing to my cat, Layla, early one morning last week. I couldn’t get myself to hop in the shower and get ready for work—I just had to rock that cat. She seemed to like it at first. Her stints of quality eye contact and her allowing me to get through the entire first verse of Close To You by The Carpenters before she clawed her way out of my grip told me so. This is bonding, I told myself. I wouldn’t say that I have crossed into the realm of emotionally unstable behavior just yet. You see, I have not attempted to braid the cat's hair or bottle-feed her. But believe me, I have thought about it.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Sprinkling Moon Dust in Layla's Hair
The nesting has definitely begun. As most of you know, Donovan and I have been living in an active construction zone on and off since the fall of 2000 when we bought our first “fixer upper.” Three houses and a lot of joint compound later, I am ready to replace the air compressor with a crib. And we will. For now, I look for opportunities to primp and pretty this nest of mine. I keep making pillow covers from my vintage fabrics to throw on the couch, on the beds and move around the house in frantic must-decorate-now mode. This, I suppose, could qualify as nesting. After all, we are only now beginning to open the boxes in the attic to whip out the mantel knick-knacks and hang things on the walls. And we are working very hard to get these never-ending projects wrapped up before baby comes home. Sometimes I stand in the doorway of the soon-to-be baby’s room and rearrange furniture in my mind. Should the crib go on this wall or that wall? But what really hit me as being “nesty” was finding myself rocking and singing to my cat, Layla, early one morning last week. I couldn’t get myself to hop in the shower and get ready for work—I just had to rock that cat. She seemed to like it at first. Her stints of quality eye contact and her allowing me to get through the entire first verse of Close To You by The Carpenters before she clawed her way out of my grip told me so. This is bonding, I told myself. I wouldn’t say that I have crossed into the realm of emotionally unstable behavior just yet. You see, I have not attempted to braid the cat's hair or bottle-feed her. But believe me, I have thought about it.
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