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We are waiting.  The days are lengthening at a rate that cannot be noticed, imperceptibly.  The rain and wind drift past consistently.  The chickens keep laying oblivious-ly  And we wait patiently, sort of.

We have reached the point of gestation, officially.  We know that it is just a number that tells us the probability and not the reality.  The reality is that the arrival is controlled by the little soul itself and not us.  Curled up and sleeping, it will decide when the time is right.

The little man has been infected with the pox, complicating the arrival of the new soul to our little family.  If the arrival is within the next few days then this will mean that the little man and his mother will be quarantined from each other for a few days.  Before the pox arrived the lovely Sharon was already filled with sad emotions about the prospect of some of the bond between mother and son being strained. She simply can’t imagine her love being divided up and shared between her children, as if under the misguided impression that her love is somehow finite. The prospect of them being kept away from each other has added to this sadness many fold.

It might not be necessary at all, it’s a matter of timing.  Not our timing, we simply have to wait.

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