Home Sweet Home Visit

This evening, my midwives will be conducting a home visit. All of my previous prenatal appointments have taken place at a clinic that used to be a house, so the vibe shouldn't be too different from how it's been all along: relaxed, casual, low-key.

Except that, um...we just moved in. On Saturday.

I would take a picture of the madness, but I have no idea where my camera is. I felt very lucky that I was able find something to wear this morning, but I'm not so sure I'll be able to do as well tomorrow. What is supposed to be the baby's room has become a storage "staging" area. (The last time we moved, we also had a second bedroom that Rob dubbed a "staging" area, with the promise that it would someday become an office, or a library, or a nursery. It was still a "staging" area on Saturday morning when its contents were loaded into the back of my dad's pick-up. I call shenanigans.) Cabinet parts are still wrapped up in moving blankets in the middle of the living room. I'm not even sure we have a phone number yet.

Ahh, the joys of moving.

Now, my midwives are some of the kindest, most wonderfully understanding people on the planet. And I'm sure they've seen a lot worse during a home visit. At least, I hope they've seen worse. But I still feel like I've totally dropped the ball by not having everything in at least some semblance of order before this evening. It's not just a case of wanting to "keep up appearances." The chaos of moving seems to have jump-started my lazy nesting instinct, and I want my home--and everything in it--to be ready for the baby. Like, now.

Of course, appearances are important, too. I don't want us to be remembered as "that couple with industrial-sized garbage bags everywhere and no where to sit."

Oh, well. At least we're not remodeling. Yet.


BiB
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