I now have a nephew. He is pink, squealy and called Rehan. He looks far less like Winston Churchill than most babies. He also has quite an evolved sense of humour – for example, after soiling his first diaper, he waited patiently till it had been removed before peeing on everyone around him.
My sister is the new Queen of Labour. Apparently she joked bravely throughout,and has got offers to star in pregnancy workshop videos. Paul is now wearing a Proud Father look in the midst of such tribulations as my mother and me campaigning to name the baby Poltu (as in, Paul II), and is secretly planning to force mother and child (who weighs in at 3.5 kgs, a natural heavyweight) to join gyms tomorrow and eventually star in workout videos.
On the day of my birth, an elderly aunt had grabbed my sister in a paroxysm of joy (or an assassination attempt) and banged her head hard against a wall. This time, we took the precaution of not informing any elderly aunts until it was too late to do any headbanging. Though there was no subsequent lack of madness on the great-aunt front, with people calling us back to ask if we had heard the news.
In a fit of avuncular joy, and as a tribute to changed lives, moving forward, families, the month Rehan was almost born in and the office where the parents met, I will now go watch March of the Penguins.