There is a sense of foreboding as the day approaches. I try to appear nonchalant and in control. I portray an air of preparedness, and try to prove to The Grammys/ Grampys and The Mister that I can keep my sh&* together.
The research has been done, the footwork performed and the ground laid. The endless trips to potential “places” are over, the questions answered.
The registrations have been made, and the fees paid. The welcome letters have been read and the information packets devoured. The guidelines memorized.
The paraphernalia has been purchased and special trips to the supermarket have been planned. The menus are posted on the refrigerator and penciled into the Filofaxes.
All set we suppose?
She’s so tiny. She doesn’t eat. Nobody else gets her cues. What about nap times?
There is this buzzing in my head that I cannot get rid of. I dread the day.I look forward to it too (so that it can finally be over with!).
I worry, though every rational part of me says it will be perfectly alright. I go around hypothetical scenarios in my head like a secret service agent on a no-holds barred international mission of life or death. I am a blubbering, emotional worrywart and the old, non-mum me would have found the current me to be utterly uncool and laughably daft.
I cannot help myself. I guess this is what happens when your very essence walks around, unprotected outside of your body!
Hundreds, and thousands have been here before. And yet, that fact provides no solace, instills no confidence.
The Tiny One is off to nursery folks.
And I feel like I am about to face the guillotine on LSD!
Till next time.