My job requires a lot of travel. It’s a fact of life; in a way the balance of our marriage teeters on it. I have overheard my wife assert on many occasions that I am required to spend at least one night a week on the road so she can get the house fully clean. So, when our pediatrician recommended that I not leave town during my wife’s third trimester I completely misunderstood his serious tone for medical conservatism. It was one of those man-to-man warnings, but I was too naive to listen.

My wife Elaine is a beautiful, intelligent, competent woman who runs an efficient household if I don’t help too much. She is level headed and financially prudent, almost to a fault. For example, she issues me a single check that I fold carefully in my wallet. In an emergency I am authorized to use it, provided I report the location of the expenditure, its amount, and the purpose within 24 hours.  If I meet these requirements I am eligible for a replacement check. Each day I am on the road I offer my humble thanks to the genius who invented the ATM machine. I like to think he was a married man as well.

In honesty, I must point out that her fiscal conservatism is not entirely unwarranted. I am an excursion leader for the largest ecotourism operator in the United States. You have probably heard our motto: “We make eco-guilt fun!” The last time I was forced to use a check was off the coast of Africa. Using my satellite phone, I gave my wife my location on the island of Sao Tome that the purpose of the expenditure was to acquire ‘fully deceased, non-arachnid meals’ for a culinary- minded tour group, and the exact amount. This is documented clearly in the check’s memo field.

Unfortunately, I was never strong in math and made a minor mistake on the Dollar-to- Dobra exchange rate. I mean any currency that trades at 15,443.18 to the dollar is mathematically challenging for a former History of Consciousness major. Hey, I was only off by a decimal place! I thought the bank unreasonably inflexible when they bounced our mortgage, car and credit card payments.

Since then Elaine programs my solar calculator with the correct exchange rate prior to each trip. I am hopeful that I will qualify for another blank check by Christmas this year. Santa needs to keep at least one secret.

Pregnancy announced the first break in my wife’s unerring practicality.  I was leading a rather timid group of New Englanders across the Kushk River into Turkmenistan when she called.

“Guess what! The Laura Ashley Hey Diddle Border for the boy’s room is on sale!” She gushed.

“That’s great honey,” I responded as I navigated a rope bridge with my free hand.

“The only problem is we need to buy the comforter, which is full price, but don’t worry I’m saving nearly that much on installation,”

“Oh?” I said, my attention focused on a portly man whose weight and poor equilibrium threatened to snap the rope if he slipped.

“My mother is flying home to help me put it up,” she gushed. Ok,” I responded, a little unnerved by the fact that I was being consulted on something so clearly in Elaine’s domain. Since when was I promoted to the interior design committee? This should have been my first clue that she had entered the charmingly altered state of “nesting”.

Her mother flew in the following day; first grandchildren receive dominion within the extended family that their post scripted siblings will only imagine. After moving the unassembled and still packaged equipment from the room, the two women stopped to survey their historic task.

“It seems a shame to mount that beautiful border on this dingy wall,” the Nana-elect observed.  Why don’t I paint it a nice mystical blue?”

“We should!” Elaine responded.

“Not we dear,” Nana replied, patting Elaine’s belly affectionately. “No paint fumes for this boy. Why don’t you go buy some nice masculine baby clothes,” she suggested.

”Well I can at least help you tape the windows,” Elaine insisted. They spent that entire day protecting each strip of quarter-round, electrical outlet, light switch, plus the spotted aluminum frames of our 1950’s style rollout windows. They ate a hearty dinner before focusing on the room’s central light fixture, a squat unacceptable globe that hung to the ceiling like old bubble gum and concentrated light on the dust bunnies that lived in the corners of the room. Both women frowned.

“I’ve always imagined the baby’s room filled with light, so I could keep it completely clean and sanitary,” Elaine agonized.

“Then let’s get shopping,” Nana barked, and before you knew it, certainly before I knew it, they were stalking the aisles of Rooms-to-Finance. Those of you who think of power tools and lawnmowers as the instruments of home improvement will be horrified to see the military quality technology that is paraded before your starry eyed wives in the name of sanitary child rearing.

Ultimately they selected a ceiling fan light combination that could deliver wattage that included a hypnotic blue glow guaranteed to drive the coliciest baby into REM sleep, a daytime setting that produced all the endorphins of summer sunlight in gently swaying wheat and an emergency setting that would expose diaper rash better than a border patrol spotlight. The fan’s Breeze Mode was guaranteed to simulate a gentle outdoor wind while the turbo mode used an algorithm patented by NASA and JPL to simulate tornadoes that was guaranteed to suck diaper odors into the upper atmosphere. The price clearly reflected the potential of NASA’s commercialization efforts. An OSHA compliant air filter, an air iodizer and an Ultraviolet light filter certified to destroy anthrax spores completed the assembly.

The next day Nana painted enthusiastically while Elaine took bids on the installation of the light and the upgrade of our electrical system to handle the new peak load requirement. This completed, Elaine could not resist inspecting the progress in the nursery. The ceiling and one wall had already taken on mystic blue proportions.

“Mom, it’s beautiful,” Elaine cried tearing up.

“Honey, you shouldn’t be in here, look how the solvents are irritating your eyes,” her mother said as she hustled her out of the room. “I tried to ventilate the room but only one of the hand cranks seems to work and that window only opens part way.”

“I have always hated those windows,” Elaine replied, narrowing her eyes in fury. “Dan promised me he would replace them when we had the money but he never did. I don’t know how I can possibly keep the nursery sanitary without any fresh air.”

Which is how I arrived home to a crew of 3 jackhammers removing 4.5 inches of brick from the front and west facades of our home to accommodate our new Pella windows. When I asked why we weren’t just replacing the bedroom windows I was informed exactly how ridiculous that would look. I really had no idea how badly it would embarrass our neighbors and affect their property values if the front of our house was marred by mismatched windows. Fortunately the power was only out for 2 more days. I really do crave a warm shower after bathing in leech infested rivers for 2 weeks.

And just in case you remember how this started, I was the one who finally installed the Hey-Diddle-Diddle border after Nana’s flight. Elaine seemed pleased that I sang as I worked, and she was too distracted to listen to the words: “Nesting isn’t painless, it brings on many changes” to the tune of the MASH theme song.