I am a nester.
I have been since I can remember.
Since I left the womb I’ve been creating homes out of anything.
Give me a space and I’ll bring it to life. I’ll make it warm, inviting, cozy and welcoming.
I can create a home wherever I go.
My first nesting memory is in my first house. I had a Cabbage Patch outdoor playhouse. It was plastic and looked like a log cabin. Dark brown with fake wooden knots, a small swinging door painted green and a table inside that folded down so you could sit and chat on the pretend phone hung on the wall.
I loved that house. It was the closest thing to having my own space at 5 years old. My mom let me borrow her old dishes and I would pretend to make meals for my friends and siblings.
Grass, when picked and layered in a pie tin, became cakes and treats. Water was always in abundance as long as we were quiet about running the hose. Too long and my mom would hear it and come out to question us. But in short spurts to fill my play pots and tins, I could make a meal of soup and coffee appear like magic.
But I wasn’t satisfied. I wanted more. I wanted real furniture, a real house with real curtains and real carpet. A playhouse on top of a swing set was erected in the backyard when I was a bit older and I begged to have the inside of the club house furnished in the miniature scale of a real home.
My pleas fell on deaf ears.
But soon I was graced with a blessed event. My next door neighbor must have been redecorating because furniture of the real wood kind began appearing on his curb. A cabinet caught my eye and I convinced my neighborhood buddies (both slightly older boys that I had crushes on at different times but I also saw as my older brothers, too) to help me drag it up the slight hill between the neighbor’s yard and my house.
Up the grassy mound we trudged, slowly dragging the large cabinet to the side of the house that was hidden from view by the hibiscus and oleander hedges that towered over us. It was a haven and I intended on making it a home.
Into the house I sneaked, quietly like a mouse, tip-toeing into the kitchen to snatch a cup, a fork and knife and whatever other little kitchen items I saw fit to furnish my new home with. I only stole individual item as to not be caught. Small things, things that wouldn’t be missed.
I don’t know how long we were left to play house in the little hide away. Together we mingled G I Joe and Cabbage Patch toys, mixing the boys need to shoot each other dead on occasion with my need to play house and heal the wounded gunmen. In peace and quiet we all three lived out our natural instincts away from the prying eyes of our parents.
Then the neighbor snitched. He complained of missing trash from his curb. We were found and my little hide away home was discovered.
I think, if I know my parents like I feel I do, they probably scolded me lightly and laughed heartily in their bed that night, amazed at my ingenuity at such a young age.
My nesting needs were never completely satisfied. Barbie homes with scented bedsheets, boxes turned into miniature rooms with cardboard furniture and cotton ball pillows, umbrellas tucked into hedges to create the roof of an outdoor home along the hedges, forts in the living room were all apart of my repertoire. Large cardboard boxes made into a pretend fridge that was only discovered when the empty food boxes inside started to collect ants and their long line down the hallway caught my mother’s attention.
Since I can remember I’ve been creating homes.
It’s in my nature to create a place that is cozy, comfortable, warm and inviting. I’ve tended to the wounded, the ill and even in my younger days helped bring a “dead” playmate back to life a time or two. I cooked meals and made pies out of mud. I picked flowers and gave them water to bring color to my home. A feminine touch was always apparent as I decorated accordingly with towels and pillows and curtains.
It’s not to say that I was 100% maternal and girlie. Once in a while when the boys shot each other dead, I would pick up the pretend riffle and take on the bad guys myself. I could ride a bike with the best of them and even kick a ball around and scrape my knees on the bark of trees.
In the end, I would welcome all those friends into my home, offer water for tea and air for cake. Together we’d sit and laugh, making childish jokes and planning our next adventure. In my home, I’d host and laugh with them, letting my childhood fantasies seep into my bones and settle in my soul.
I create homes wherever I go.
I am a nester.