The baby still wasn't real to me when the first ultrasound revealed one head, some organs, limbs, ventricles and a spine. "Tidy your womb," I said, giving Kit his first telling off.
It seems he had been listening after all and later tidied up his umbilical cord with a series of life-threatening knots. Maybe he intended shimmying down it in some Stewie Griffin-inspired escape, to destroy Parliament before the entire country dies of sighing at the Coalition.
But no. Unable to rustle up any dynamite, his first act was to wave his arms about, prompting a comely nurse to say "Aw. He's stroking me."
Ten seconds old and stroking a nurse. That's my son, that is.
There was concern that he might be born a Gindian, a ginger-Indian combination of his parents. Instead he had his mother's dark hair, his father's eyebrows and his Great Aunt Maud's penis.
He also unmistakably has my hands and feet, only in miniature, obviously. Otherwise he'd represent a very challenging birth, but an amusing test for people who really want to say 'He's gorgeous!' when they mean, 'Big-footed monster!'
He also unmistakably has my hands and feet, only in miniature, obviously. Otherwise he'd represent a very challenging birth, but an amusing test for people who really want to say 'He's gorgeous!' when they mean, 'Big-footed monster!'
He also boasts some fine earbrows - downy hair over the top of the ears that would have got you burned at the stake a few hundred years ago. Or made king on the Isle of Sheppey.
I'm savouring the inscrutable period before the smiles begin. It all goes irresistibly Disney then, after a long period of dour European cinema. I like European cinema; the sparse dialogue, ambiguity and unspoken nuances. Babies have a similar mystery and presence, though with more poo.
Staring at him, wondering what on earth is going on in there, you get no clues. I'm pretty sure the look he gave me the other day though equated to: You wanker.
For now, there's no language, no means of expression beyond crying. It’s a bit like being a Premier League footballer.
Currently I'm trying to master burping, but something is awry in my technique. Once Kit has been fed and looks thoroughly stoned, I get him on my shoulder and pat his back. Without fail, I burp. I burp copiously and volubly, before handing the visibly upset infant back to his mother, unburped and slightly horrified.
