PREGNANT females are like birds.

At some point in their second or third trimester, they might suddenly morph into energetic magpies or fussing hens.

I’ve seen it in my friends, and in myself as well.

See, there’s some kind of instinct that sets off a light bulb in their heads, and sends them into domestic overdrive. In the animal world, this means gathering twigs and leaves for the little ones’ bedding, and stocking up on fruit and nuts for after the birth.

In the human world, this instinct usually manifests itself in frenzied nursery decorating, home improvement and various overhaul efforts.

Two months ago, this very instinct kicked in in me.

I was a whirl of activity: Calling in the curtain man to install new sun-screening roller blinds on the balcony; making multiple trips to Ikea to buy a new sofa and bunk beds for the children’s room; considering wallpaper swatches; putting up works of art in the rooms; changing busted light bulbs that had been busted for months (the Supportive Spouse, for all his talents, is not very handy around the house); arranging for meal-delivery services; rearranging the furniture and knick-knacks... My to-do list went on and on, and I felt indefatigable.

“Ooh, you’re nesting,” cooed my friend M, a mother of two, when I mentioned it to her. “How cute!”

I suddenly had a vision of myself turning round and round on a bed of hay, trying to flatten a warm spot for me and my impending young.

But it makes sense, really. It’s nature’s way of helping us prepare ourselves, materially and psychologically, for a momentous event that nothing can really prepare you for.

Nesting helps to allay and keep at bay, for a while at least, the inevitable anxiety that one feels about bringing a new life into the world.

Sample thought process: “Is my baby going to be healthy? Am I doing the right thing? Will I be a terrible mum? Do I have enough money? Argh, don’t think anymore, just decorate... oh, look at that cute cot!” And so it is that on weekend afternoons, you’ll find me and the Supportive Spouse trying to wrestle with various nesting tasks.

We try to open an ancient playpen that, for some reason, refuses to stay open. I scrub out milk bottles and breast-pump paraphernalia, breathless and kept at arm’s length from the sink by my giant baby bump, trying to get at the dirt in minute openings with a straw-cleaner.

And there I go, obsessively packing and repacking my hospital bag, two weeks before my due date.

Our three-year-old son, Julian, finds these strange happenings in the house terribly exciting.

He gets in the way, tripping us up, as we try to do our baby-prepping.

It’s quite ridiculous, I must admit, but also hectically blissful.

The family that nests together, stays together, I figure.

Now that I’ve got my nest (almost) in order, I just might take a short break to ready myself for the long journey with baby ahead.

Tweet tweet, chirp chirp, cluck.

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