So where the bloody hell are you?

37 and a bit weeks and feeling bigger than Jesus

Here I am, on a Monday afternoon while other people are at work, sitting at my dining room table looking out at the cul-de-sac. It's raining and blowing a gale, shaking the perfect-shade-0f-red pohutukawa across the road and rattling our windows. The postie is bored and lethargic (as am I) having fallen asleep on the couch and now reading in bed. This is what it's like waiting for a baby to be born. I'm 37 and a bit weeks, so still have just over two weeks till my due date. However, I am an impatient woman and just want my little boy now. The tiny clothes are clean and folded in his drawers, the appropriate nappies have been invested in and are ready to go, the mobile has been put up over the cot. The cat has been given firm instructions never to enter the room, and P has put up a series of paintings he's done that read "be happy without reason". All the hand-me-downs and new clothes have been put into boxes, labelled and stored in his wardrobe, and I've even sterilised the breast pump and bottles ready to go. My suitcase has been packed for ages now.

However, it seems Tiny wants to stay the full 40 weeks in his luxury accommodation, so we'll just have to wait a little longer. I was born three weeks after I was due - I can't imagine how my mother didn't go insane.

Baby's room when we moved into our flat four months ago. Otherwise known as the room with the stuff that we closed the door on

Baby's room today - ready for liftoff - the cot is unmade to keep the cat off it, in case you are wondering. When the sun comes in in the afternoon, P can be found reading in the rocking chair.