Reverse nesting

All the baby books say that pregnant moms participate in "nesting," i.e. preparing their homes for their soon-to-be-spawn.

The baby swing - a most necessary item.

I am participating in reverse-nesting. Of course, I'm not actually pregnant. But I intend to be, so I think it still counts. Reverse-nesting is the scientific term for staring at your incredibly small duplex that is perfect for two adult persons and one 8-pound feline and thinking, "Where in the hell am I going to put a baby?"

My guest room/office is not eager to be converted into a nursery/playroom. One wall is lined with bookshelves, which are stuffed with much-needed tomes. The closet is filled with Christmas decorations, the humidifier, out-of-season clothing and other miscellaneous items that we never look at but can't bear to throw away. Our desk overflows with papers. There is a double-size bed shoved in one corner for the occasional visitor.

The rest of our house doesn't do much better. Every square inch of closet space is taken up by TJ's and my stuff. While we do have a surprising amount of children's literature and kid-friendly movies, that's not exactly a concern of a newborn. Newborns are worried about jumpers and changing tables, bottle cleaners and fragance-free laundry detergent.



So I'm reverse-nesting. Namely, I'm going through every nook and cranny of our life and throwing stuff out. The pile of items to go to Goodwill is growing daily. I've organized and refolded all of the towels and blankets in the linen closet to see what sort of space we can acquire. I've imagined how we can reorganize the living room and our bedroom to make room for a crib and one of those swings (because as useless as so much of the baby merchandise is, all of my friends tell me you have to get one of those swings).

In all of these efforts to create baby-space, I have come up with a fantastic business idea -- "Baby Stuff Rental." It's sort of like those child-proofing companies that come in and install locks on your cabinets and put covers on all your light-switches, but instead they make sure you are ready for all the baby merchandise your child comes with.

They'll come in and cover your counters with empty baby-food jars and bottle-drying racks. They'll install a crib in your bedroom, a playpen in the guest room and, of course, one of those swings by the TV. They'll scatter smelly burping clothes around the house, hide pacifiers under the sofa and cover every square inch of your living room rug with teething rings and pointy-edged toys.

Most items will come equipped with lights and sound that turn on automatically and play the same four notes for hours. And, of course, they'll arrange for someone to call you every two hours and cry for 45 minutes from 10 p.m. to 8 a.m.

If you can manage to make it a week in the clutter without going insane, impaling yourself on a toy or taking out all the batteries, then you can have a baby.

Really, I think this business is genius. Much better birth-control than giving teenagers sacks of flour or an egg to take care of, don't you think?

Until someone capitalizes on my baby-money-making scheme, I guess I'll just have to keep cleaning and trying to convince TJ that no, he doesn't actually need another copy of that Stephen King book ...