Waiting. Impatiently.

Over the last couple of months, Mo’s questions have shifted from “Why?” to “How long is it until…?” Some are easy to answer (“How long is it until we’re home?”) and others are harder (“How long is it until I finish my dinner?”). While I try to consider and answer each question well, a few times now I’ve fallen back on a reply Mr Bull gives Peppa Pig’s family when they ask how long it will be until a road’s fixed: “It will take as long as it takes.”

The baby’s due date came and went yesterday. I can feel my body getting into labour mode, but I’ve given up going to bed thinking, “THIS COULD BE THE NIGHT!” I’ve worried for my whole pregnancy that she’d arrive too early (I needed something to stress about once she made it past the first trimester); now that she’s on time I vacillate between feeling so over being pregnant that I cry at everything and fight overwhelming urges to punch the smug-looking woman on my birth book, and feeling a zen, “It will take as long as it takes.”

Mostly the former, though.

Grr.

I’m finding it easiest to work on the zen thing by avoiding all people as much as possible (if ONE MORE PERSON looks at me and says, “Still going?!”, I WILL STAB THEM IN THE FACE WITH  A FORK) and distracting myself with episodes of The West Wing and Modern Family.

I want to be able to walk again rather than waddle, and to have enough lap space to cuddle Moses, and to cut my toenails and shave my legs without having to manoeuvre myself into positions typical of Cirque du Soleil performances, and to be comfortable.

I want to finally meet this squishy, squirmy girl, who I never thought I’d get a chance to meet.

It will take as long as it takes.

It will take as long as it takes.

It will take as long as it takes.