Nesting

There's something primal going on in the Mission suburbs. It's one thing to hear and read about it, quite another to see it happen, even if you know the same thing's happening in barnyards, forests, and in certain apartments across the Marina. 

Baleen's nesting like a brooding hen. It sounds sexist to say, like her role in these final few weeks is to prepare the home for our soon to be son while mine is to wear wingtips and call to say I'm coming home late, but it's happening, and there's a name for it that even I would have recognized a few years ago: nesting. 

In the just over a week that Baleen's been off, she's done the kind of things that make you think, damn the convention, my resume should be two pages long. I begin: she's cooked too many healthy dinners to list; bought enough blueberries to fill a crater (and a Thomas Keller cobbler that gave us 4 nights of dessert); kittted out fkaBaxter's room with the things we didn't have and needed, like that giraffe lamp and a few bookshelves; washed every single item of fkaBaxter's clothing and bedding in baby friendly detergent, and, for the first time I've ever seen in our four years together, folded and put away that very same laundry; thrown out most of the junk from my man drawers; organized the changing table and bathroom in such a was as to make Cam from A Modern Family proud (wipes here by my left arm, diaper trash down below on my right, now I'm reaching for the ointment with my right arm while holding the baby with my left arm...); commissioned some cheap Etsy art for the baby's room; pushed a shopping cart through target; dropped our car off at the shop and got a rental car; confirmed our pediatrician, daycare (hopefully) and CHP appointment to install the carseat; lunched at La Boulange while reading Bringing up Bebe; got a suntan swimming at the outdoor Mission Bay pool; and, instituted a second nightly dessert, frrrrrozen hot chocolate, the Serendipity dessert mix sold at Williams-Sonoma.