In our family, we affectionately call it “The Nana Gene.”

We had a Nana who — well, let’s just say — did not play well with others. Nana, as I recall, was always getting booted out of one living situation and on to the next.

It happened frequently during my childhood, and we always seemed to be visiting Nana in a new apartment. As a result, Nana developed an amazing ability to pack her worldly possessions into the back of her old black Ford with keen speed and precision.

The real gift, however, was in her unpacking.

Upon arrival in her new digs, Nana generally had the place whipped into shape in less than 45 minutes. I mean pictures hung on the walls, doilies on the end tables, TV rabbit ears propped with foil on them — even the Hummels were all lined up on the windowsill.

Her three or four intrepid African violets made each trip unscathed. (Nana always had African violets.)

And so, we giggle as a family when we say, “You definitely got ‘The Nana Gene.’” And in my family? I got it.

Thankfully, I have not moved much, but when I do, I am a tornado of packing energy. The Nana Gene at its finest means not only do you pack and unpack, but also that the boxes are crushed, folded and recycled by day’s end. Nana didn’t mess around.

Behind every Nana Gene is the deep desire to create a nest. And if you are at the age when you have kids who are really, truly, actually leaving that nest, then you know about the lump in your throat when you help them pack, or haul a beat-up old couch on to a trailer.

This is a big one — they’re stepping out into the real world, with (hopefully) a real job, and (definitely) real bills and real challenges. “We’re not in Kansas anymore,” as Dorothy so wisely mused in “The Wizard of Oz.”

This past week I’ve spent a better part of my days packing boxes to ship to my kid who’s setting up shop in D.C., and I packed with that same energy — frantic, almost — because I want her to have a nest to come home to.

At the end of these new days, which are scary and uneasy, exciting and uncharted, I want her Nana Gene to have kicked in. I want pictures on her walls, a big, fat comforter on her bed. I want this brand-new nest to feel like home. (She can skip the African violets.)

More than anything, I want my daughter to bloom where she’s planted. I know it will take a lot more than boxes and packing tape to do that, but I thank my irascible Nana, and her old black Ford, for helping me to guide my daughter from one nest to another.

Peggy Keyser Thompson is a resident of South Portland.