Re-uniting families and the Little Man at five-months

The Little Man is asleep in his pushchair. I sit in my childhood home, amongst my own childhood toys, preparing for my final few days here in Wales. On Thursday, we move to London, after eight months separation from Da Berg. I'm a swirl of emotions: Anticipation to see the flat, which has sucked up so much of our energy, finances and Da Berg and his brother's time; fear at how on earth we will manage the endless laundry, cooking, shopping, cleaning without my parents on hand; anxiety that Da Berg still has a lot of "small" jobs, that inevitably will take longer than he thinks, leaving me, quite literally holding the baby; and delight at the idea of finally being together, though this too is mixed up with an apprehension as to how we will settle into our routine together. 

Having time with my parents these last five-months has been an absolute gift and the hardest aspect of leaving is knowing they will be four-hours drive away, unable to pop in to take the Little Man for an hour in the morning so I can sleep or to rock him during lunch or sing him Norwegian lullabies, or take him for a walk to Sainsburys, or hand him to me in the bath. An era ends and a new one is set to begin. Wish us luck.