There were six big plastic tubs of hand-me-down newborn, baby and toddler clothes sitting beside the washing machine and my concerns about their unsorted and unwashed state were raised during every baby-related conversation I’ve had of late. Clearly it was bothering me more than I cared to admit so Poet and I sorted the 0000 from the 000 and cooed with each discovery. She tried to fit into all the little floral outfits and I sat on the concrete step, reminiscing. I pulled out the little wrap and top-knot beanie that Che wore home from the hospital and Daniel reminded me how hard it was to get our first-born into the car seat; a tiny newborn doesn’t unfurl easily. I found the little white t-shirt with three embroidered rabbits that Poet wore mere hours after she was born and remembered the three real rabbits that were illuminated in the headlights when we pulled into the hospital car park earlier that night. Serendipitous considering she was born in the year of the rabbit and has, without doubt, a tendency to hop about.

These children, they grow fast.

With every load of little washing that made its way onto the line, I stood back and admired the greatness of it; so satisfying and heartwarming this preparation is. And regardless of the emotions that hand-me-downs conjure, there is something innately satisfying about clothes, swaddles and booties that have been worn and washed and will be worn again – seven years since they first entered our home.

Whilst I still have about a month till my estimated due date, I’m well aware that babies come when they’re ready. Am I ready? No, not just yet. But then again, I have very little control over it, don’t I. There’s that word again: surrender.