The Nest

Anyone who has met me knows that I think a lot about place—trees and trails, waterways and dunes, but also about interior spaces—the porches and rooms in which we dream, sleep, read, write, and eat. I’ve written about the historic home in which I grew up, its acres of backyard magnolias, oaks, Ginkgos, boxwood, brick piles, dog pen, barn, greenhouse, and chicken coop. I’ve written about the generations of family who gathered there for meals, weddings, and funerals—who raised kids, lived, and loved in those rooms. So the time and attention I lavished in curating and planning Birdie’s nest should come as no surprise. After clearing shelves of books and my beloved writing desk from what was previously my office, I prepared to refill her room with art, color, texture, pattern, and her own library of books—gestures meant to inspire and remind her of the family and friends, artists, writers, and readers (near and far), who believe in and love us and our family:

Chrissy, Nathan, Cassidy, and Katie devoted a weekend to scraping the ceiling of its 1990s popcorn texture, so that we could then prime and paint the newly smooth surface the sweetest shade of coral. I was adamant that the room not be pink, but I also had this crazy notion that if I painted only the ceiling the color of a villa in Santorini even the white walls would glow year round with the rosy warmth of summer. Neighbors Brevin and Rebecca not only loaned me tools and a Darth-Vader-esque dust mask, they tutored me in their DIY ways so that I felt semi-confident I could actually mud and sand the ceiling myself. Over several weekends, I gave it my best look-at-me-six-months-pregnant-and-balanced-on-a-stepladder! effort until Miriam (Thank you, dear Miriam!) arrived from New York amid so much plastic taped along my floors and walls it must have looked like the set of the movie ET, and generously called in a professional to help me finish.

That crew wrapped up the day before my sister and nieces were due to stay with me for a baby shower. With them, they brought the crib and glider my sister rocked her girls to sleep in. I’ll always remember how excited my nieces were to help. That night after the shower we assembled the crib together; my hands, my sister’s, both sets of little nieces’, each holding a different rail or clutching an all-important last screw.

The “Part Poet Part Wolf” Rayo and Honey pennant that hangs above the crib now was a gift from Liz and Andrew, and the gorgeous floral skull is by my friend and Wilmington artist Sullivan Anlyan. Rebecca knitted the adorable bird mobile and suspended it from driftwood she collected on Masonboro Island, and the beautiful scrap quilt of books was made by my talented friend and fellow Davidson alumnae book clubber Teri.

Birdie’s “Here’s to Strong Women” letterpress print is a longtime favorite of mine from The Bee & the Fox, and I love the rad tintype of women surfers by Joni Sternback from the poster for Heather Hudson’s film The Women and the Waves.

A ballerina peahen gifted by author Aimee Nezhukumatathil will always remind me of her stunning essay “Monsoon and Peacock” from Ecotone’s craft issue, and speaking of that shelf, it’s full of all sorts of goodies: milestone blocks from Hannah, an elephant from Uncle Scott, a Good Little Citizen Fox from the Blanchard family, A. A. Milne books from Betsy, and Sophie the Giraffe from Beth, Zac, and Theo. (Sophie awaits endless hours of neck sucking and leg chewing.)

Finally, there’s Birdie’s library, which might be the nursery detail of which I’m proudest. Those shelves once held hymnals and bibles at First Presbyterian, the church I attended every Sunday, for Christmas and Easter services, for the first seventeen years of my life. When they renovated the sanctuary, my mom made a donation to rescue a few of the discarded racks for our family, and I’ve stored them since, awaiting the perfect use. After three coats of mineral paint and a few more weeks of curing, they were ready to hang and fill with books—gifts from dear friends and fellow bibliophiles I first met and came to love through the Hub City Writers Project in Spartanburg, SC, where I once lived and worked, my generous Davidson College committee friends and alumnae book club, about whom I’ve written, my wise and lovely colleagues at UNCW, and the fiercely smart and dedicated friends I’ve made through our affiliation with HarperCollins. You don’t see it in the photo above because it’s already on the table beside the glider, but my friend Caroline and goddaughter, Lila, also gifted us Goodnight Stories for Rebel Girls Volume 2, which I can’t wait to read to Bird.

As Caroline reminded me recently: if I were a person afraid of learning and teaching myself new things, of tackling big projects—rewiring lights, mudding a ceiling, hanging bookshelves—I probably wouldn’t be embarking on this adventure in the first place. But more than any testament to my independence or ingenuity, this nursery represents all the projects and details I couldn’t possibly, not in a million years, have accomplished on my own. Every time I step into it, I think of the incredible village of friends and family supporting us. It’s as warm as I imagined it, but not because of the ceiling—because it radiates so much love, embodied in a library of thoughtfully selected books, a hyacinth that bloomed last week and has already sweetened the air. It’s full of the generosity, time, and sweat of friends who carried the chest and glider, who scraped and painted the ceiling smooth. And it’s full of art and literature I hope will inspire my girl to curiosity, kindness, strength, and creativity, to find and trust her story and voice, or as Mary Oliver puts it in her poem “Wild Geese,” her “place in the family of things.” May she cultivate her sense of self as she draws, reads, surfs, and cartwheels her way through this world. I thought I’d never get around to saying it, but this nest is ready for you, baby.

xo—Mama