"Your toothbrush is looking frayed," I said to my husband. "Wouldn't you like a new one?"
"Sure," quoth he.
"Great," I replied, "because I want to use your old one to clean the stepstools." Ooooh, it felt so good to get into every little groove and crevice and get them all cleaned out. Mmmmm, the memory makes me want to go scrub something else.
The stepstools were last cleaned when I was approximately this pregnant with Pete. I looked to see exactly when the nesting instinct had last whipped me into such a frenzy, and it turns out it was eleven days before his arrival. Now I wonder if I'm going to be having a baby eleven days from now, because it's a really bizarre urge.
The good thing about having a fifth baby is that we both know it's a temporary kind of insanity. In fact, all weekend I've been appreciating the familiarity that comes with years of marriage. We used to squabble a lot about holiday meals -- he thought I was too focused on the food. On Thanksgiving he mostly cooked while I mostly cleaned, and together we pulled off a delicious dinner with very little stress. (Let me say publicly that he was totally right about (a) the turkey, which should have gone into the fridge on Sunday and not Monday, and (b) the potatoes, because I wanted to be sure we had enough and insisted that he peel enough potatoes to feed the combined populations of Belarus and the Ukraine.)
Okay, I was going to say more mushy things about my husband, but he wants to go to bed and I asked him if he would wait until I was done with this post so we could do a Christmas present inventory. So I will wrap up hastily. The end.