Waiting. . .

It’s a frustrating thing, the word delinquent comes to mind and I’m not entirely sure why. We’re sat on the edge of this monumental change; by the end of a fortnight nothing will be the same. But right now...everything feels very much the same indeed. The same as it has been. Which is, of course, the way we’ve been preparing for it not to be for some time. 

It’s like worrying.
Does being preoccupied on the approaching change help you enjoy it more once it’s upon you? Or are you better off just enjoying the present moment. I think I know the answer.

I’ll never not be a parent again. This is the last week for that. 

There are folks in the world who treasure that quality of not being a parent and the freedom it lends them so highly that they’d never give it up. The fact that I’m not lavishing in it and getting the very most out of it is something like an affront to them. 

Maybe I ought to be out at a bar or a concert or a film or a flirt, really living up the last of these hours without poop on my hands. 

The fact that I have no desire whatsoever to do that is likely a sign that I’m on the right track, at least I hope it is.