So apparently I'm doing what they call "nesting."
From Parenting Weekly they describe nesting in their first paragraph as "This is an uncontrollable urge to clean one's house brought on by a desire to prepare a nest for the new baby, to tie up loose ends of old projects and to organize your world."
Yeah. That's me. Yesterday I spent the entire morning cleaning the bathroom and reorganizing the cabinet under the bathroom sink. And the fact that I didn't get to clean the floor bothered me, so clearly that will be a task for today. Along with cleaning the kitchen and the "office." I feel like I have stuff EVERYWHERE and that I'm no where near as organized as I should be.
This could also be the result of knowing that I probably won't get any time to do all this stuff in the first few months of having Baby Miller.
So then panic sets in. A little. I don't want the house to look like I don't care about it. I care. I'm just tired. And hot. And pregnant. And apparently full of excuses. I figure since it's a 3 day weekend, I can use this time to tidy. And most people think I'll have him early, so I'm mentally planning that I'll probably only have a good 3 more weeks to get things done, if I'm mobile enough, because this little boy is shifting further down every day.
Anyway, I was talking to Eric the other day and I was saying that I want to be the kind of mom, that when my little boy wants to create something, I'll have all the tools available. If he says, "Mom, I drew this monster and I want to make him out of ____", I want to be able to go get the fabric, yarn, paper etc and make it with him.
I was reading an article in response to an article written in Time Magazine which showed a mother breast feeding her pre-school aged son. It was called "Are you Mom enough?" Personally, breast feeding or not breast feeding doesn't make you a good mom or a bad mom. Some women want to breast feed and can't. Some women can, but choose not to. There have been so many advances in formula that the choice is now in our hands and it won't affect our children if we don't let it. There are always going to be people who want to sway you one way or the other, but ultimately, the choice is your own.
Anyway, the response article was written by Kara Baskin, a blogger for the Boston Globe. She wrote a wish list of hopes for son. I feel exactly the same.
I hope I raise a child who says “thank you” to the bus driver when he gets off the bus, “please” to the waiter taking his order at the restaurant, and holds the elevator doors when someone’s rushing to get in.
I hope I raise a child who loses graciously and wins without bragging. I hope he learns that disappointments are fleeting and so are triumphs, and if he comes home at night to people who love him, neither one matter. Nobody is keeping score, except sometimes on Facebook.
I hope I raise a child who is kind to old people.
I hope I raise a child who realizes that life is unfair: Some people are born rich or gorgeous. Some people really are handed things that they don’t deserve. Some people luck into jobs or wealth that they don’t earn. Tough.
I hope I raise a child who gets what he wants just often enough to keep him optimistic but not enough to make him spoiled.
I hope I raise a child who knows that he’s loved and special but that he’s not the center of the universe and never, ever will be.
I hope I raise a child who will stick up for a kid who’s being bullied on the playground. I also hope I raise a child who, if he’s the one being bullied, fights back. Hard. Oh, and if he’s the bully? I hope he realizes that his mother, who once wore brown plastic glasses and read the phonebook on the school bus, will cause him more pain than a bully ever could.
I hope I raise a child who relishes life’s tiny pleasures—whether it’s a piece of music, or the color of a gorgeous flower, or Chinese takeout on a rainy Sunday night.
I hope I raise a child who is open-minded and curious about the world without being reckless.
I hope I raise a child who doesn’t need to affirm his self-worth through bigotry, snobbery, materialism, or violence.
I hope I raise a child who likes to read.
I hope I raise a child who is courageous when sick and grateful when healthy.
I hope I raise a child who begins and ends all relationships straightforwardly and honorably.
I hope I raise a child who can spot superficiality and artifice from a mile away and spends his time with people and things that feel authentic to him.
I hope I raise a child who makes quality friends and keeps them.
I hope I raise a child who realizes that his parents are flawed but loves them anyway.
And I hope that if my child turns out to be a colossal screw-up, I take it in stride. I hope I remember that he’s his own person, and there’s only so much I can do. He is not an appendage to be dangled from my breasts on the cover of a magazine, his success is not my ego’s accessory, and I am not Super Mom.
I hope for all of these things, but I know this: None of these wishes has a thing to do with how I feed him or sleep-train him or god-knows-what-else him. Which is how I know that these fabricated “wars” are phony every step of the way. I do not need the expensive stroller. I do not need to go into mourning if my "sleep-training method" is actually a "prayer ritual" that involves tiptoeing around the house in the dark. This is not a test. It’s a game called Extreme Parenting, and you can’t lose if you don’t play. And, really, why would you play? You have children to raise."
Sorry for the longest post ever. But I guess it's that kind of day.
Have a wonderful Memorial Day everyone!!!