It’s this overwhelming feeling that everything needs to be in order by the time baby arrives. When I was pregnant with my first baby, I started “nesting” around the 6 month mark. During that stint I refinished two dressers, painted baby’s room a pale pink (from a dark brown), painted our stairs, and redecorated our master bedroom in just a few short weeks. My sister-in-law scoffed when I mentioned this, “it’s too soon to nest!” Maybe it is, and maybe that’s not the right term to use this early (I’m 29 weeks today). But how else can I describe this driving force that has somehow taken hold of me and turned me into a gardening beast?
You see, we purchased our house a little over a year ago and it was early Spring when we first put the offer in, so we weren’t aware of the entangled monstrosity lying just below the surface of the earth.
Ok, I mean, sure. You can see the gardens are riddled with pachysandra (a creeping vine-like hell-beast). And yeah, there are some trees that probably drop a lot of leaves and other garbage, but we were blind to all this when making the offer. Would we have backed out and not put our offer in if we knew that it would require endless days pulling weeds, vines, and cursing obscenities to the wind? No. Haha! We really wouldn’t have changed anything about our offer on this house. When we walked in we knew it was ours; grunt work and all.
It only took a few days of driving up and down the driveway this Summer to unleash the nesting beast inside of me. The right hand side (facing the house) was completely overgrown. It even had an old rusted out push mower intertwined in the mess. Imagine it looked like this:
That’s a scarily accurate depiction by the way.
While my daughter was napping, I went for it. I hacked at the stumps, yanked at the vines, pulled three spirea bushes from around the tree base, and even sawed through a few branches. After moments of literal blood, sweat, and tears – as in, I tore my fancy “going out” sweat pants. You know, the one’s that you think are socially acceptable to wear to the store because they make your tush look good. The ones that make others think, “hey, at least she’s not wearing pajama pants”. Those ones. After all the aforementioned, I was left with this:
It was like the house could breathe again. I, on the other-hand, needed to sit down and catch my breath. As I sat there I thought, not too shabby for an afternoon’s work. Now I’m looking at you, side yard.
Although, it looks like my daughter may have a head-start.