It's been a month now. A month away from home, a month living in the uk.
If honestly prevails, I was dreading being here so long. Usually two weeks leaves us screaming to return to the odd familiarity of Novi Sad and out quiet little routines. Yet, this time, the culture shock has trickled as slowly as treacle and the overarching purpose has quashed the dream of returning.
Life has been beautifully slow, something I can say is not usually a feature of our visits. Our first fortnight was spent in a mad dash preparation, for we arrived to a newly painted nursery devoid of much baby associated paraphernalia. Meanwhile medical professionals rushed though paperwork and appointments, showing the NHS at it's best, as it tried to get me onto the system.
As the due date dawns I simply don't have the energy to do anything anymore, or the tolerance for the inordinate amount of nausea that accompanies trying. There is no popping in the car for excursions, no great trips out. All those grand plans of connecting with faces that have been absent from my vision for so long are simply washed away, as is the colour from my face when I stand for more than half an hour.
Instead I sit and rub my rounded belly, dream of the life it holds and the weight shifting from my hips to my arms. I delight in the blessing of having parents who will let me resort to the child, who will cook and wash, cart me about, and remind me of appointments. As the anticipation grows in me I watch it grow of the faces of those I love about me. My sisters face when she felt the babe kick is a moment I will always treasure. My parents joy of browsing the delicate baby clothes, and my siblings comradely when we all met, make this time something more than just a wait, it's a deep blessing too.