Yesterday afternoon we got back from being away, to find that our new baby had been delivered. I use the term delivered with great care, since in my professional world we say, haughtily, that babies are not delivered, they are born. But this one was definitely delivered, in the post. Pete quipped as I cut open the packet and pulled it out by the legs that it was clearly breech.1 This is not a joke he could or would have made back in the old days.
Bernard heard our remarks about the new baby and bimbled through to the kitchen to ask if we were having a baby. A playmate at last! he was thinking. I quickly disappointed him by explaining that it was a new teaching doll, used to demonstrate good positions to hold a baby to breastfeed. My previous doll was at least ten years old, rather grubby from living in the boot of the car, and the arm kept coming off, which really didn’t help me to instill confidence in handling one’s baby, in the parents-to-be.
The old baby [left] was named Stuart after two members of the old cocktail crowd, and also because it was one of Bernard’s shortlisted names. Introducing him to an antenatal class as Stuart always raised a smile. What shall we name the new baby?
- Coming out arse-first [↩]