Waiting for my son to be born. He should have been born by now, but there are no signs of delivery yet. I'm eager, dull, low-spirited and pessimistic. I know I shouldn't worry, but I do. My mother taught me to worry --incessantly, dramatically, rather absurdly. Not that she wanted to or that I resent her... But I was with her as a child all the long evenings when my father hadn't come back yet and we were there just waiting for him to arrive. He earned his living as a sales representative, and as such he spent most of his time in the road, in a time (the mid-seventies) when no mobile phones were known. My mother was very much distressed when half past nine PM had struck and he wasn't back home yet. But she didn't suffer either silently or expressionlessly, and I was there by her side, soaking up all her restlessness positively silent and expressionless. I grew up constantly worrying about my father's delays, worrying as a child worries --with terror, in solitude. Anxiety is now a key component of my personality. I only hope being intelligent enough not to pass it on my son, when it comes out, if it comes out.