Two weeks from now (maybe three, hopefully not four), I very much doubt that there will be a un-appointed town cryer, hoards of cameras on the steps of the hospital or a sleep deprived correspondent filling a 24 hour news cycle - as H and I head home with our first baby girl.
Royal Births are a strange thing. Judging by the Twitter-storm kicked up this morning it's hard to tell whether the Americans or Brits are more enthused (although I have my suspicions).
Camping out in the rain, decked top to toe in Union Flags (it's only a Jack when hung from top of a Jack Mast apparently) - hoping for just a glance at the Royal Bundle whilst simultaneous glued to a iPhone on a selfie-stick trying to get a photo.
Of course in the digital age we all now live in, you don't have to be Royalty to have a touch of preg-no-fame - we have become accustomed to curating baby announcements, gender reveals and even live tweeting from the birthing suite have opened up what once was a incredibly private affair, ever more public.
We all have friends on Facebook that you have forgotten what they look like because you appear to have been re-friended not by them, but by their offspring.
Every step, word, meal time, breast feed and fart documented for friends and family.
Since we had our own 10 minutes of baby-fame last summer when, thanks to a tweet from @StarbucksUK I found myself amid a flurry of congratulations from complete strangers, I have been rethinking what it will mean to raise Mini P in a world where so much of her upbringing could be published to the public before she ever has a say in it.
Maybe I am trying to pushing uphill, trying to hold back the tidalwave of data she is being born into - or maybe it's just one of the new dad worries of the modern age - time will tell on how much self discipline we exert over that dopamine-enducing impulse to overshare.
Either way, I'm sure @NicholasWitchell is relived he only has to camp out for Wills and Kate.