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I will know I have it made when I can poop on somebody and they will be happy about it because it is supposed to bring them good luck.

Or when my face graces a box of cocoa flavored balls or fruity flavored circles.

Or when people dress in green to match my den sofas and sit and watch me with binoculars as I eat my yogurt.

People just love birds. They can fly, they come in pretty colors, they sing pretty songs (unless it’s this parrot I know that curses like a sailor). No wonder people go insane with Pam spray and silver slippery sticks and metallic tent like covers to keep those nasty squirrels away from the food they provide for them. (Now I am personally of the opinion that birds can get seeds and nuts anywhere, so if you want to feed something that will truly appreciate it, get a cup of ramen and some bread and put it out back and see if the homeless will flock to you.)

And even though birds avoid that whole pregnancy thing and just lay a few eggs and sit around for a while, society has named the “special” period of pregnancy when you are cleaning the couch cushions for the billionth time or relining your shelves or alphabetizing your soup cans trying to get the house ready for your newest edition- nesting.

Me? I don’t nest. I really really WANT to nest. I want my hormones to overtake my body and give me the energy to be cleaning at all hours of the night. Or vacuuming under the couches-though the layers of dirt down there might be too much for the vacuum to handle. But it’s so not happening.

I sat and waited for it to kick in with my daughter and nothing ever happened. She came early so maybe I missed the desire to fluff all the pillows and climb ladders in order to Windex the outside of the windows…. but I doubt it. Most of my pregnant friends have already shown symptoms of Nestitis. They are recleaning pots, organizing their shoes and picking out bedding. At a minimum they are being obsessive about the lengths of their fingernails.

No cleaning or scrubbing by moi, though. I did have my husband paint my toenails the other day. I thought that was good of me. And as a bonus he didn’t mind, and not only because he is wonderful and supportive and understanding and glamorous and just the best man in the universe.
Nope.
He is nesting too.

He has stayed up past 2am at least 12 of the past 14 nights. And not just cleaning. But doing the Man Work. He moved furniture out of one of the guest rooms to get it ready for our daughter to move into. He went to Lowe’s and Home Depot no less than 15 times. Even though the man is as color blind as they come he put up about 50 different samples of paint trying to decide which shade of purpley of pink would be just right for our beautiful Princess to be a big sister in. He cleaned out the built ins in the den. He reorganized the bookshelf so all the books that belong together would be together (“Bartending For Dummies? Hmmmm. I know! I’ll stick it in the reference section!”).

And get this, the man finished the basement. Painted, got it carpeted, sealed and lined. Bought cubbies and bins and cubes and vats of even more toys and a red sleeper sofa to make it the best playroom in the UNIVERSE.

I really love him, but King of Kookaburras that man is.

It makes me jealous. I can barely bend down to check if my polish is dry but I want to have the burning desire to clean and prepare and get ready. I want to be part of all the fun neurotic things that other Mommies (and Daddies)-to-be get to enjoy/suffer from.

But no such luck.

You know what I think? I think nests are dirty. They are full of twigs and sticks and other people’s garbage. Maybe that’s why my version of nesting just involves me sitting around in my own filth.