Nesting*

Last weekend Tim decided to rearrange our apartment, moving our desk from the bedroom to living room. He’s also talked about moving closet items to other closets and switching dresser drawer contents. Like, right away.

We live in a 750 square foot apartment with a large bedroom, an apartment almost twice the size of our first New York City apartment but by no means large. Tim wants more space, whereas I’d be content to bring everything into one room within arm’s reach of the bed. He wants everything “put away,” and I’m more than ever comforted by the baby book sitting on top of old mail and pile of New Yorkers, all topped by my empty cereal bowl on the coffee table next to the bag of Reese’s peanut butter cups we’ve been working on since Christmas.

At some point I’m going to have to help decide how to rearrange the apartment to accommodate number 3, and at some point I’m even going to have to help actually rearrange the apartment, just like I’m going to need to decide if Santa is going to visit our home and figure out how to pretend to like vegetables so I can set a good example, but right now I don’t want to.  I have New Yorkers to read. (And human life to create.)

 

*God do I hate the word “nesting,” but I’d much rather use the word myself than be accused of it. So, it’s out.

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