It’s getting hard to sit still. It’s getting harder still to not be still in any constructive form.
Half a disassembled wardrobe is blocking the upstairs hall, and half a tonne of IKEA’s cardboard excrement is lying outside our back door, waiting to be cut up and properly discarded. The Christmas decorations are still in the attic and my poor car could pass for an army vehicle it’s so in need of a wash.
We are close enough to be all but ready, and far enough away to be thoroughly unprepared.
I am full of great ideas though, I’ve calculated that with all the bandages and cotton wool left over from the kraampakket, we can insulate the attic. If some lazy bugger would move the Christmas decorations first.
The kraampakket has caused me to suffer an expectant father confidence blow too, it turns out the blue dinosaur in the kraampakket isn’t a blue dinosaur, it’s a blue dragon. Fire breathing et al.
How could I confuse those? This child is in for a rough time with someone who can’t tell Barney from Hannah Montana.
This was the tip of a realisation iceberg. My naivety being my Titanic, and I’m already up to my shriveling Di Caprios in icy waters.
The poor kid is screwed for entertainment.
I can’t do funny voices, other than my default one, I don’t have an imagination, not one whose manifestation into reality wouldn’t land me jail and Mena Suvari in hospital , and I’ve decided children don’t actually like me.
That last I have no proof of, but my boss doesn’t like me and that must mean something.
If I’m going to survive this, this child is going to need low expectations.
And maybe box cutters.