Julie Jay: Nesting has involved me turning our home upside down

The term 'nesting' conjures up images of birds gathering teeny twigs, small branches and soft leaves to make a cosy home for their adorable offspring. And, for one brief moment, all is right with the natural order.

In reality, nesting has involved me turning our home upside down like a member of the Drug Squad searching for evidence and hounding our long-suffering mortgage broker with a relentlessness not seen since your auntie asked you to buy Garth Brooks tickets on her behalf. Yes, my neurotic personality has ensured nesting is less restful and more stressful in this humble abode of ours.

Fred has spent most of the last week in a state of perpetual bemusement as I have taken to hoovering cushions underneath his bottom. 

“Don’t mind me,” I say, as I search his jean pockets for loose change and tissues — all of which will, of course, detrimentally impact any future wash.

“I’ll go through my pockets when putting the wash on,” Fred says.

But I insist on getting it done now while he’s still wearing his pants.

“No time like the present,” I say because part of this cleaning mania is marked by my inability to talk in anything but idiom.

Suddenly, it has become paramount to our status as reasonably passable parents that the bathroom grout lines are scrubbed manically with a toothbrush and that I finally call my own bluff and throw out any stray socks that have yet to find a partner.

Of course, no manic nesting session would be complete without buying a series of storage boxes. I am convinced these boxes will store away all life’s little problems - from repressed memories of when I had a real job, in the form of P60s and pay cheques and pension plans - to my many, many bottles of half-used Sun Shimmer (because it’s never too late to embrace a sparkly décolletage).

Adverts.ie has become my most visited site as I trawl through the furniture section, determined to outbid MaryFlaherty000457 on a second-hand rocking chair.  I am so obsessed with bagging a bargain that I commit to paying €50 for a chest of drawers — the only minor drawback being that the chest of drawers is located in Balbriggan, a mere 375km away.

Fred insists this is too far to travel to pick up a chest of drawers for no other reason than, I have decided, he doesn’t want me to be happy. 

Ever the queen of Make And Do, I stack my new storage boxes and convince myself that they have the desired effect of a chest of drawers because I am, at my core, an eternal optimist.

I keep dusting and Mr Sheening and hope that that’s enough to make the place at least feel like a place that is full of love for our much-wanted arrival.

While the interior is reasonably under control, out the back, we have taken bio-diversity to the next level and the nettles are well and truly running the show. Sitting in a garden is supposed to be a soothing experience, but ours is more akin to something out of TS Eliot's 'The Wasteland'. Still, as long as the house is half-presentable, I think I can cope with the safari experience.

The last time I gave birth, I made the mistake of not doing as big a clean as I should have before going into hospital. I was in emotional tatters when I came home and was confronted by the absolute state of the place.

This time, I want the house to be semi-decent when I land back with baby number two in tow. But I know the likelihood of this will be slim to none, given that my husband and son will have had the run of a free gaff for a few days.

Still, I keep dusting and Mr Sheening and hope that that’s enough to make the place at least feel like a place that is full of love for our much-wanted arrival.

Tonight, I am sitting down with a cup of tea, surveying all my hard work and at the risk of sounding like architect Dermot Bannon, I am struck by how good the place looks and how much we can transform a space with a bit of folding, a propped up cushion, and a couple of lamps here and there.

My self-satisfaction is disturbed when Fred comes in from his gig and turns on the main light in the sitting room. This isn’t the first time he has turned on the main light in my presence and once again, I consider this grounds for immediate legal separation. Why would he want to light up the messy corners of the room? 

“What are you doing?” I protest, shielding my eyes from the blaring wattage.

“Just putting on the light,” he responds.

“Big lights are for operating tables and police interrogations only,” I retort and gesture toward the lamp.

Bemused, Fred turns off the main light, and once again, bathed in the safety of soft lighting, he plonks beside me on the couch.

“I quite like big lights,” Fred tells me, but I fire him a look that says: ‘This could be the conversation which breaks us’, and he says no more until a moment later when the silence is broken.

“We’ll be grand Julie,” he tells me, and I turn to him and nod.

“We will,” I say, and I mean it. We will be grand because even if we now live in a house consisting mostly of storage boxes, at least we are currently smelling of Mr Sheen. And to be fair, you could smell worse.