These are strange and anxious days. The Missus and I have been stock piling everything we may or may not need for the forthcoming apocalypse. That's right kids, R.E.M. hit the nail on the head, it's the end of the world as we know it.
Parenthood.
The Missus has been carrying around our little girl for thirty-two (32) weeks now, which means we're close to the business end of this thing. A scary thought considering I haven't been able to piece her cot back together. After two unsuccesful attempts to knock the cot together, I've come up short and had to call in reinforcements.
Friends and wellwishers wretched stories of premature births don't help either. Every time The Missus farts, burps or looks a little cock-eyed, a ferocious terror floods over me. The baby girl can't come yet, she won't have anywhere to sleep!
So until the cot is pieced together, The Missus has to cross her legs. Otherwise baby girl might have to spend her first night at home sleeping in a drawer, either that or a shoe box.
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