As I write this column I am in my ninth month of pregnancy. I am hauling a full size human being around on the front of me. It is hot. It is humid. I am cranky. Your body and mind wait until you are in this wonderful state to play dirty tricks on you; one of these is called the nesting instinct and it is a horrible, torturous thing. I have previously admitted to being somewhat of a slob and frankly, I’m generally accepting of that fact. I have my share of issues, but OCD in the cleaning and organizing department is not one of them. But suddenly I am possessed. At the very same time I am also very large, very awkward, and very tired. Did I mention that it’s hot and that I am cranky? So I am now a slob possessed by a nesting instinct. Super.

The instinct presents itself in me as an overwhelming need to do random and useless tasks. The sink may be full of dirty dishes, but I am obsessed with cleaning out a cabinet I haven’t seen the bottom of in five years. The refrigerator is full of mysterious, aluminum foil covered items, yet I feel like I must clean out the entire vent system on the clothes dryer. There is a pile of clothes to put away, however the state of the bottom of the household trashcans is what’s on my mind. I have filled countless garbage bags, all while wondering where all the junk came from and if it has multiplied in corners and forgotten Rubbermaid containers.

I also find hazards all over the place, as this home hasn’t been babyproof in quite a few years. Good Lord, the place is a deathtrap. There are sharp corners that are like magnets for tiny heads and electric outlets just a-begging for a fork to be inserted. The amount of spare change, nuts and bolts and other choking hazards is overwhelming. The toilets have no locks; the cabinets are not secured; the appliances are looming like huge gremlins waiting to get their hands on a small child. And I am constantly saying, “You can’t do that/drop that/leave that there. There’s going to be a baby here in no time at all.”

I’m driving my already crazy self crazy, for goodness sakes. There are hot stove burners with pots and pans that do not have their handle turned in. There are electric cords lurking around each and every corner. My gosh, the curtains and blinds with their sinister cords are everywhere.

The water in our kitchen sink is insanely hot; a scalding hazard for sure. There are nails that need to be pounded further in on the deck; someone could lose a toe and then there will be a tetanus shot involved for sure. The refrigerator door is way too easy to open; somebody could climb in and become trapped. The dogs and cats need some kind of animal whisperer; none of them are ready for a baby. The kitchen knives are way too easy to access as are the many toxic cleaners that live here. Don’t even get me going on the sheer amount of tools, so sharp and threatening.

The end of pregnancy insomnia does not help with the obsessive nesting situation. One can only watch so many Golden Girls reruns before your brain is overtaken by how dirty the air filter on the vacuum is.

I have been told repeatedly that the child will not come out fully capable of accessing the evil hazards that lurk. I know this, I really, really do; but it does not turn my brain off at three in the morning when it tells me that I simply must wash all the glasses in the cabinet again.

To sum up my current situation; this nesting crap is for the birds.