Labor Day

“I don’t think this is what they mean by Labor Day,” my husband groaned as we hauled a rock maple highboy dresser up a steep staircase into our bedroom.

I remembered a Labor Day weekend 22 years ago when contractions alarmed me two weeks ahead of schedule. It was our first child, our son, wanting to be part of the picnic we celebrated every year with our bungalow friends.

Full labor didn’t develop that day. Our son dallied in utero for almost a month before being pulled unwillingly into the antiseptic world of a hospital.

While I waited for him, I nested fervently. My mother painted a second-hand dresser while I fashioned a tumbling-blocks quilt. My husband assembled a crib from Sears.

I am nesting again. This time, it’s to make the room fit for a brood that comes and goes and doesn’t need to be told when to wash its hands or brush its teeth. An adult brood of friends and family that puts its dirty dishes in the dishwasher and brings offerings of olives from Murray’s Cheese Shop in Greenwich Village.

Now, paint chips litter the coffee table as I try to envision something other than the dull beige of my son’s former bedroom. I cover the names of the various hues so I am not influenced by their poetry: “blue seafoam,” “icy moondrops,” “river’s edge” (how could I resist?) On a recent visit, my son chimed in for “yellow raincoat,” turning the color wheel around entirely. What about “weeping wisteria?” There I go, peeking at the names again.

Never ask a poet to pick color chips. The artists I know and trust pick pure hues like “true turquoise” but the lack of inspired language repels me.

In the meantime, I employ my still strong but aging husband to haul furniture. The bookcase goes downstairs as the dresser comes up.

Before Labor Day, I delivered our sophomore daughter back to her dormitory. To save precious dollars she agreed to let me bunk with her for a night. I would have gladly paid for the privilege. Usually, I prefer the quiet blank walls of a nearby motel. TV punctuates the droning highway noise, a mini-fridge chills yogurt and a bottle of wine while my mini-Schnauzer curls up in a corner, eyeing me curiously. But this time, sleeping on a memory-foam mattress pad next to my daughter’s extra-long twin bed suited me fine. The dorm was largely empty—freshmen had yet to occupy—and had been renovated over the long summer. The rancid vinegar smell in the hallways was gone now, replaced by the off-gassing of new carpet. The walls were freshly painted— “candle-light,” if I had to guess.

After roughly 75 round-trips to the mini-van, we had transferred her most precious belongings to her new single room. It didn’t take long to make the 80 square feet seem like home, with Shakespeare on the shelf, vintage clothes in the closet and Billie Holiday on the wall. The Schnauzer stayed home with Dad. (I doubt they did any heavy lifting.)

It was clear to me I was in her world now, a visitor, even if still a patron. My place on the floor next to her solid bed was not unlike the cradle she once occupied in our bedroom 19 years ago. We drank herbal tea and fell asleep to the sounds of our own breathing.

So it’s not surprising that my nesting instinct kicked in on my return home. It’s too soon to change anything in my daughter’s room, except for some serious cleaning. But with the removal, on Labor Day, of the tall dresser from my son’s bedroom, light filled the space and new uses beckoned— an office for my husband, a guest room, reading room, retreat for napping.

The time I once spent in the service of family begs to be filled. But it is hard to turn your life on a dime. So I nest, filling the empty spaces with new material, envisioning a new life, a new labor of love.