You and your partner are expecting a baby. You get so many gifts, surprises and/or hand overs from your friends and family.
Every flat surface had something on it that hadn't been there a week earlier. A blanket folded over the arm of the couch. A pile of muslins on the dresser. A bouncer half-assembled in the hallway, the manual still tucked into the bag. People I had never met had sent things. People I had met had sent things, and I had failed,in my new sleep-deprived state, to register that they had.
i.
By the third trimester it was constant. A sleping bag from my sister, lent. A pile of 0–3 month onesies from a friend at work. A handmade blanket from a mother-in-law.
The names blurred. The objects multiplied.
The breaking point was a stuff from Jona work. She will not be back to work next year so it will be hard to remember who gave what.
Was it a gift? Was it on loan? Was I supposed to give it back?
The thing nobody tells you about the kindness of others, in the early months, is that it is an admin job to receive it well. To know who to thank. To know what to return.
To know whose name to put in a card the following Christmas.
ii.
I tried, in order, every place I already lived in: a Notes app, a shared note in iCloud, a spreadsheet.
None of them survived. The Notes app fragmented. The shared note got noisy. The spreadsheet felt clinical for what was, fundamentally, an act of gratitude.
The thing none of them did was the simplest thing — let me take a photo, attach a name, and get on with my day.
So I built it.
nido is a small, private place where each kindness gets a small entry: a photo, the person it came from, whether it is a gift to keep or something to return, and a free-text note for whatever else you will forget. It is shared between the people in your nest — your partner, a grandparent, a friend who is helping — so that no single tired person carries the whole memory.
When the bassinet is ready to go back to my sister-in-law, I search her name. I see every item she gave us, including the two I had already forgotten about, and I pack the right one.
When someone visits in September and gestures vaguely at the wooden rattle, I have an answer.
iii.
A few promises, plainly.
No ads. No selling your data. No nudges to share. Photos and names stay private to your nest. I am one person, in Iceland, and I have no interest in monetising your tiredness.
Free while we are small. If we ever need to charge, it will be a single small price, not a subscription that creeps up on you.
You can take everything with you, or delete it, any time.
iv.
If you are expecting, or in the first year of it, or you know someone who is — nido.einargudni.com.
The blanket on the couch will not stay on the couch forever. The kindness was already given. The least we can do is remember.