Massive congratulations to blog friend Muddling Along Mummy who, despite a hugely difficult pregnancy, has given birth to a beautiful baby girl.
Meanwhile I am tapping my fingers and still waiting for our baby to make an appearance.
When asked how old he is, T insists that he is 'free' (as in the number, rather than available for customers John Inman style). It brings its problems of course. In reality he's a petite just-two year old, still wearing trousers designed for six to nine month old babies, but he has ideas above his station. One of these is that he can reach the pedals and self-propel some of the pre-school bikes in the nursery playground. He can't of course. Well, we thought he couldn't. Last week, perched on the very edge of the seat, he managed to push his tiptoes onto the pedals and went. His face was the very picture of glee, I'd imagine there was cackling. Then, disaster. In an attempt to steer away from a group of his friends of course T lost control and tipped onto the soft-surface, the bike falling on top of him.
When I went to do the nursery pick-up, T had a lovely pink cheekbone, over the weekend that's developed into a cracking shiner. Yes, my little boy has a black eye. He's remarkably unbothered by the whole thing, except to stick out his bottom lip whenever anyone asks about it, giving his face a rub and saying 'ouchie'. Drama Queen, much? It's telling that as nursery were frantically trying to apply a cold compress post-bump he was all pumping legs crying and reaching for 'my bike' as one of the big girls rode off into the sunset.
Anyway, a black eye would surely spoil the 'new baby meets big brother' photos, which is why, I tell myself, 'baby dister' is still tucked up warm an snug inside. T's eye is now a lovely lemon and lime colour, which I reckon gives us only another couple more days to wait.
In this overdue no man's land, my hormones mean I can justify anything!