Playing the waiting game ... it’s a finger lickin’ pain!

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It’s been a week of waiting and expectation for the Livingston family.

My poor pregnant daughter, now eight days past her due date, is climbing the walls with boredom as we await the arrival of her second baby.

She’s lost all sense of humour on the matter, and friends have been banned from asking, “is the baby here yet?”

Of course, as the expectant grandmother, who is largely out the loop except for when my child decides to give me an update, I’m on tenterhooks constantly.

I stayed at home all day on her due date because of the atrocious weather, which was a mistake.

Every time the phone rang, my heart skipped a beat.

The phone calls were an assortment of junk and wrong numbers, and I was considering pulling the blasted thing from the socket.

But last night came a family phone call.

It was my daughter’s husband and soon-to-be-dad-of-two, excited, and out of breath.

“Kate, Kate, great news!” he raced.

“Oh God really,” I said, grinning from ear to ear, with thoughts in my mind of my child cuddling hers.

“Yes, I’m so excited, KFC is coming to Falkirk.”

“Get off the line and grow up,” I barked at him.

“Only phone with baby news from now on.”


A few hours later, I got a text from my daughter explaining that my son-in-law just thought I’d want to know about Kentucky Fried Chicken coming to town.


What do I care if a KFC is only a few minutes drive from my house?

I don’t eat that takeout stuff ... much ... anymore.

Certainly not a regular and really couldn’t tell you about the menu ... in any great detail.

Although they do do that fabulous corn on the cob thing.

Anyway, my point is that while a mother sits worried sick about her children, they are out not even thinking about you or concentrating on trivia.

I remember the first time my son was away with the Scouts camping, I didn’t sleep a wink. It’s horrible the first time they’re away for days on end.

He was small for his age and accident prone.

“What if he’s missing me?” I would think.

“What if he’s had an accident, he might be calling for me.”

I then had the most vivid imagine of my son’s face, wet with tears, calling out “mum”.

He came back a few days later after having a ball and not giving me a thought, leaving you feeling silly and pathetic and hoping you’ll develop a thicker skin as the years go on.

It hasn’t happened.

Hopefully, though, I’m less of a worrier these days.

What’s the point in worrying about a few extra calories you consume in a fast-food meal when you have the anxiety of motherhood to burn them all off?