Nesting versus Migrating

There is this thing called nesting that they say pregnant women get. I remember when Marta got it. She suddenly NEEDED to have the bassinet and other baby things put together and in their places, even though we were like a month away from her due date.

I remember thinking that she was being just a wee bit neurotic, though of course I didn’t say that.

Good thing, too, because here I am, two and a half months away from my due date and I am feeling the NEED to get things in order.

The only problem is that we’re still in Iowa.

Normally that wouldn’t be a problem at all. Iowa this summer has been about as close to paradise as one could hope, especially if one had just spent three years in Lubbock, which, despite it’s charms, and despite us meeting great friends there who make it better, is still way too conservative and way too sprawly-flat for my tastes.

Iowa City, by contrast, is filled with trees and also filled with events for family and kids. In our short summer here, we’ve been to see music in the park (several times), had pizza at a nearby “pizza farm,” picked blueberries, sat outside at a restaurant terrace/bar while our daughter played on a playground (numerous times), listened to music at the farmer’s market with friends (numerous times), walked in the woods (numerous times), gone to two parades and three arts/music festivals, and hung out reading in the public library while Nico plays with the kitchen set, making us meal after meal of plastic steak and smothered baked potatoes (way too many times to count).

We’ve also seen lots of old friends who we love dearly and who we’re going to miss like the Dickens when we drive out of here next Monday.

Despite all that, I can’t wait to leave. And this time it’s Marta who think I’m crazy. If she had her way, she’d stay here forever. But I’m really itching to be home, even if that home is Lubbock, so I can begin getting things in order.

I was home briefly this past weekend. I had to take my qualifying exams for my PhD. This entailed me writing three response essays over the course of three days based on a book list of about 100 books I’ve been reading over the past year or so. It was a thoroughly exhausting experience–especially when you’ve got a baby inside you waking you up at all hours of the night with her kicking and the heartburn is setting in and you’re just so god damn tired.

But, despite all that, I was super happy to be home. Because it was home. It was our home. And though my qualifying exams didn’t leave me much time to begin moving furniture or trying out nursery color schemes, you can bet I thought about it. I also thought a lot about cleaning and organizing and how satisfying it will feel scrub that corner clean or to get that pantry in order or to clean out that corner of Nico’s room.

Just admitting that here is kind of freaking me out, but it’s true. I want to build me a nest, friends. Even if it is in Lubbock.

Also, Nico says hi. She does still exist. She’s made lots of friends at her farm daycare and is beginning to learn to read and write. At home sometimes, she’ll walk around with a notebook and pretend to be a doctor or pretend to be a teacher and then after diagnosing us or lecturing us about something, she’ll scribble away on it. She still loves princesses, but she’s also gotten in to superheroes a little bit. Instead of being a princess for Halloween, we’re trying to convince her to be a Super Princess, which she seems to agree is a good idea.

She also really likes temporary tattoos. She has one of Captain America right now and when we got to the public library yesterday, she looked down at her arm where the tattoo is and said, in a very loud voice, “Hello Tattoo!!” A hipster kid checking out books nearby looked over and started cracking up.

And speaking of hipster kids…

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3 thoughts on “Nesting versus Migrating

  1. Great picture, btw. And, idea: Why don’t you write a poem or story about a lonely guy who falls in love with a tattoo on his arm of a beautiful woman–a beckoning siren, say, or Venus arising from the half-shell. If you don’t want the idea, I’ll take it.


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