Jordan Brock

Highway to the Delivery Zone

And so it comes down to this. Inevitable I suppose.

p. 1.5 weeks to go, which basically means that it’s due to arrive any damn time it wants to. Caren has packed, the mini nursery (the corner of the bedroom) is almost ready to receive it’s cargo. Prams are bought. Car seats purchased. Toys are on standby. Nappies are beckoning to be spoiled. The dogs are wondering why we’re both home all the time. Phones are primed with numbers of relatives. Bills are paid, ready for the long lean times ahead.

p. The peanut, which obviously no longer resembles a peanut so much as a sack of kittens within Caren’s torso, is all set to go. The head’s in the right spot. The doctor assures us it’s going to be a normal birth. All limbs are present and accounted for, pushing gently against organs. Just waiting.

p. I suppose we are both anxious, pretty much the same as all soon to be new parents. Not sure what’s going to happen or how we are going to cope. Obviously everything is going to be fine, but still. It’s just all so new and unknown.

p. More news at 11.