Like most families, the Baldwin clan has a number of its own catchphrases which are trotted out at particular moments.
For example, there's 'I'm thick of thoup' (that's 'I'm sick of soup' as spoken by a young, lisping child) � used when the same meal is served up with monotonous regularity.
'People like a buffet�' is quoted whenever someone makes a wilfully contrary and unhelpful remark. (This originates from the time my wife described the meticulously-planned menu for our wedding reception, only for her mother to respond with those four deathless words.)
And then there's the classic 'My stomach's all on the work'.
This was coined by an elderly aunt in Fakenham � one of the last of that generation living in rural Norfolk that sees Norwich as a big, scary metropolis and visits once a year at most.
It happened when she was being driven down Grapes Hill and was sent into a panic by the overwhelming combination of the dual carriageway, the filter lanes and the traffic lights at the bottom.
Her phrase describes perfectly how I've felt for the last couple of weeks � a condition for which our football team is solely to blame.
After Black Saturday, when we lost to Coventry and all the teams around us won, I was pretty phlegmatic; resigned to relegation, and almost philosophical about it. But now, with ten points from the last five games, the b*ggers have revived the possibility of escape and plunged me back into a state of agitation.
I'm on the results predictor on the BBC website almost every day, anxiously trying to work out how many points we need to be safe (52, I reckon, which means another three wins) and my bum isn't squeaking so much as giving a continuous rendition of Acker Bilk's Stranger on the Shore.
To feel resentful at being put through this may sound wilfully contrary and unhelpful enough to warrant a 'People like a buffet�', but I can't be the only one feeling this way.
After the Plymouth game, a friend of mine told me about a Fulham-supporting mate of his who went through the same thing at the end of last season.
Their Premiership survival hung by a thread week after week, and the agony reached the point where � like a character in a drama with a gun at his head who tells his would-be assassin: 'If you're going to do it, just do it�' � he found himself half-wanting his side to lose a game just to finish the uncertainty once and for all.
In the end, of course, Fulham completed their escape and the friend of a friend was ecstatic � revealing the resentment for what it really is. It's fear; specifically, the fear that hope may have been revived only to be dashed again.
If City now fail to follow through (not in the way that I am in constant danger of doing�) and reach safety, it might have been better to go down quietly. It would certainly have been less nerve-wracking.
Even though we now appear to be on a roll, it doesn't follow that we will continue to pull smoothly away from danger.
This is Norwich we're talking about, after all; things are seldom that straightforward. It's going to go right down to the wire.
(Where does that expression come from, by the way? Are there any sports which have a wire stretched across a track at the finish? It would make athletics a lot more interesting.)
There are bound to be some results before the end of the season which few will have anticipated on the BBC predictor. For example, you'd expect us to get something at Charlton on the final day given our current form and the near-certainty that they will have nothing to play for.
But history warns us otherwise, and I'm not thinking of the Fulham match at the end of our last Premiership season. I'm thinking of 1980/81.
City had a run of good results over that Easter; there were four wins on the trot, including (spookily enough) a win against Ipswich in the third from last game of the season. On the final day, only the unlikely combination of a home defeat against already-relegated Leicester and a Sunderland win at Liverpool would send us down.
Unlikely it may have been � but it happened.
Perhaps I should change my attitude to get through the next few weeks without turning into even more of a gibbering wreck than this column is showing me to be.
If I keep telling myself that our current situation is a bonus considering I was convinced we were down, surely my nervous system and lower intestine will have to listen eventually.
And there's so much to appreciate about the team at the moment. The way they're playing is remarkable when you look at the components.
Stanley compared them recently to prisoners digging a tunnel to freedom; I see them more as the glider built in Colditz from any odd materials that came to hand. (Note to pedants: yes, I know the Colditz glider never actually flew�)
We've got a keeper who's made a string of costly errors; a right-back who's prone to nodding off and waking to find himself playing in a football match; a centre-back who was shipped out a few months ago and came back because he couldn't get a game with his new team; two Australians who couldn't get games elsewhere; a midfielder told over a year ago he had no future with the club but who continued to hang around; a striker whose career appeared to be over; another who failed a medical recently; another who had never played in the Championship a month ago; and another who two months ago was a scaffolder.
It's a motley crew when you look at it that way � but they do have something in common. They all have something to prove.
And maybe that's what Bryan Gunn (who falls into that category himself) sees in them and is harnessing to the team's advantage.
However this season ends, at least we're finally watching some decent football instead of the thin, insipid fare we were served up far too frequently before.
I'd grown thoroughly thick of thoup.
And finally� if the club ever needs a trainee in the sports science or nutrition departments, I can recommend someone.
Walking my five-year-old daughter to school the morning after the win against Cardiff, I explained to her how important the Plymouth game on the Saturday was going to be. She looked thoughtful, then said: 'If Norwich want to play well, the players must get to bed early and not eat too many sweets'.
Sounded sensible to me.