The Nesting Nazi

I'm sorry, I can't blog right now. I'm nesting.

I've got it bad. And there's nothing worse than feeling the compulsion (yes, it's a compulsion) to nest, but being unable to do your own heavy lifting. I'm not great at relying on (or waiting on) people to do things for me. Somewhere in the dark recesses of my memory, I can hear my dad grumbling under his breath:
"You want something done and done right, you got to do it yourself." His philosophy must've grabbed hold somewhere along the line, because that's kinda how I feel.

I remember not really getting the concept of nesting when I was pregnant with Tanner. That is, until I found myself on all fours with a toothbrush in my hand, cleaning the vents and cold air returns in my apartment. Huh, I thought. I don't think this is normal behavior. 

This time, I know exactly what is happening, and I am powerless to stop it. I'm pretty sure Jason was baffled when I began sobbing over the current state of the garage and basement. Sobbing. And it wasn't even all that bad, but honestly, if I had to look at all that junk any more I was going to lose it. I needed it to go away. Nesting 101.

He played nice, and we worked on bringing order to the mayhem this weekend. I can breathe again, and he thinks I'm a candidate for a padded room. What can I say? I'm pregnant.

There isn't a single part of my body that doesn't hurt after our efforts this weekend, but I am clinging to the satisfying feeling of accomplishment I have right now. I know that it won't last long, because I will begin to obsess over something else in no time I'm sure. I sure hope my relationship survives this!