Prog Rock Baby

Dear little LHG, at nearly four months old, is going through that time in his life when
he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.

He’s alert enough to take an interest in all sorts of things, but not mobile enough to
be able to sit up on his own and join in. Imagine how frustrating it must be to rely on
someone else to prop you up so you can do stuff. He’s just started to have some
hand control, taking a swipe at toys in the hope they do something. Often he’s
rewarded with a squeak, a rattle, the manic neighing of a plastic horse or a twee
voice asking, ‘What’s the weather like?’ On these occasions, his eyes widen and his
mouth opens in surprise.

He loves noise, creating it and just listening to it. And if there’s one thing that can be
(almost) guaranteed to calm him down when he’s ratty and can’t settle to anything,
it’s music. Giovanna only has to put on a track by Beethoven, Mozart or some other
classical composer and he’s instantly quiet.

‘I expect you to be able to play this when you’re three,’ she told a mesmerised LHG
the other day, referring to Rondo alla Turca (the Mozart piece played by Mrs Hurst in
Colin Firth’s Pride and Prejudice, for those of you who are fans - and who isn’t?). A
little ambitious maybe, but his mummy, daddy, aunty and uncles and two great
grandads are (/were) either musicians or musical, so why not?

Of course, while Giovanna wistfully imagines him playing wonderfully complex
classical pieces on the piano, Daddy JW and uncle Peter might have other ideas.
JW is a drummer who teaches youngsters to play. Uncle Peter, a rock guitarist who
also dabbles in electronica, has his nephew earmarked as the next Jimi Hendrix.

And LHG himself is showing early signs of interest in prog rock. In the car, crying fit
to bust at the indignation of being put in the car seat, a burst of Genesis or Yes will
relax him and he’s comatose for the rest of the journey.

For the moment all he can manage is a tiny plastic maraca, and I’m always afraid
he’s going to whack himself in the eye with that. Still, it won’t be long before he can
hit Daddy’s drums with a stick. Then we might all be regretting any musical
ambitions we had for him!

999! Or how you never stop worrying.

You get to a point in your life as a parent where you think you've seen your children successfully through their formative years, that they've survived all the little disasters that beset them during their childhood.

There was the time little LHG's Uncle Peter climbed the ladder leaning against the wall at the top of the stairs. Our stairs were in the living room at the time. I saw him, his face a picture of total shock, tumbling down, gripping onto that ladder. He was none the worse for his adventure, but it was a heart-in-mouth moment. (Actually, Peter's heart-in-mouth moments would fill a blog on their own!)

Then there was the time Uncle Jack fell over in his classroom, catching the edge of his eyelid on the corner of a desk. He still has a little scar to mark the moment.

I can still vividly recall the day I got a phone call from the mother of Aunty C's friend, H. They'd been to the swimming pool and were now at casualty. C had slipped off the side of the pool, hitting her chin on the edge. That could have turned out really badly, but she got away with a few steristrips taped across the ensuing gash.

Mummy Giovanna spent most of her childhood with grazed knees and scuffed shins.

I could go on and on.

But just when I assume those days are behind me, I get a phone call from Giovanna, telling me she's fallen down the stairs with little LHG in her arms. Furthermore, Pa and I are twenty miles away in London and her partner, JW, is at work.

Panic, panic. 'What happened? Did you fall on top of him?'

'I slipped on the stair and ended up on my back and he was on top of me, but he might have bumped his head over my shoulder. I don't know. What shall I do?' she gasps. 'Should I go to hospital?'

'Are you okay?'

'Yes.'

I can hear LHG crying in the background.

'See if Aunty K's in,' I suggest, referring to Uncle Peter's partner, because she has a car.

Pa, overhearing the conversation interrupts. 'Tell her to call an ambulance. Better than messing around waiting in A & E.'

I pass this on. You can't take any chances with a baby. 'Ring us when you know what's happening.'

We're in a restaurant at the time, having lunch. I'm wondering whether to go home. Would it be overreaction? Oh why has this happened today when I'm not in the village? I feel tearful.

Fifteen minutes go by. I ring her. The paramedics have arrived and are checking them both over, out in the ambulance. They take them to hospital because they haven't the right equipment to check a baby(!). All is fine: they're just shaken up.

I still spend the rest of the day thinking how it could have been very different.

The fact is, you never stop worrying whether your children are safe, and when you become a grandparent, you get new little people to worry about.

Such is the life of a Nonna!

A weighty subject

I don't know what's in the milk Giovanna's feeding little LHG, but it's clearly gold top.

Every week since he was born he's been putting on nine ounces, on average. His mummy now feels confident enough to miss the odd week's weigh in. 'Look at him,' she said when I questioned this wisdom. 'He's clearly not wasting away.'

She has a point. In fact, we're starting to worry that he might have the opposite problem. They say you can't overfeed breastfed babies, and I'm sure they're right, but even so. Babies are meant to double their birth weight by six months and triple it by a year. The way he's going, he will have slightly more than tripled it by six months.

Warming to this theme, Uncle Peter, a bit of a maths nerd, decided to calculate how much he'll weigh by the time he's forty if he keeps putting the same amount of weight on. He apparently calculated the answer as 133 stone! However, having re-calculated this sum, and realising he was putting LHG's original birth weight into the equation, I estimate it to be 83 stone. Not so bad then!

Of course we're just being silly. Babies don't continue to put the same amount of weight on, especially when they start moving.

And even if LHG is three times his birth weight by six months, I'm not going to worry about it. If the health visitor shakes her head and tuts, Giovanna will be ready with two little cards, both over 50 years old, to prove a point. They're the baby weighing cards of the OH and his twin brother, LHG's Great Uncle M. They were 7 pounds a piece when they were born. Seven pound twins, I hear you exclaim! Oh yes - and there lies a tale for another nonna blog. But by six months, they were 21 pounds each. Triple their birth weight. Right chubby little soldiers they were.

And what did they grow up to be? Six foot and skinny. So I'm not going to stress about all those pounds LHG is piling on, and neither is Giovanna. Especially as LHG's daddy, JW, is 6 foot 3 and skinny...

...and eats for England and never puts weight on. Sigh. there's no justice in the world!

Family stories

My friend Catherine has given me the most gorgeous present.

It's a book entitled Dear Grandma, from you to me  and it's full of questions that LHG might want to ask me at some point in his life. I can write the answers in the book and give it to him when it's complete. What a lovely idea.

Now LHG is particularly fortunate to have a Nonnna who knows more about her family than most do about theirs. In turn, I am lucky to have had relatives who've told me a great deal about our predecessors. Some elderly cousins remain who still have much to tell. And, like Walter de la Mare's phantoms, I have always been a listener, lapping up the stories of my large family from my mother, father and my Welsh great Gran, among others. The wife of a second cousin of mine has spent years putting together a vast family tree for one half of my Italian side, gathering stories from various members. In my possession is a family tree for the other Italian side, compiled over fifty years ago after a cousin died intestate. My father was interested enough to ask for it after they'd finished the case.

It always amazes me when people don't even know the names of their grandparents, let alone anything about them. I pointed out only last night to a writer friend, that the name of her character, John Jenkins, was that of a great great grandfather of mine (the father of the aforementioned great Gran). How many people would know that? All the knowledge I have has been invaluable in finding out even more from ancestry sites. If you have no family knowledge, where do you even begin?

I have lots to tell little LHG. So much so, it won't all fit in his Dear Grandma book so I'll have to make sure I keep a record of the all censuses, birth, death and marriage certificates, and everything else I've amassed.

And when he's grown up, maybe I'll tell him the other family stories. You know, the ones you don't put into a child's book...

Shopping with baby

With LHG a little over a week old, Giovanna and I decided to take him on his first shopping trip to the Big Shops. She only needed nursing bras, I wanted to pick up a some shower spray and a magazine. How hard could that be?

Well, for a start, I have no idea how a person, let alone one who's not long given birth, would cope with that pushchair on their own. It took two of us to fold it down (when we'd worked out how to do it!) and put it in the boot of the car. It barely fitted, despite the boot being a decent size, and we had to detach the body from the frame. Individually, each piece weighed a ton, so I can't imagine how anybody would lift it normally.

Sadly, LHG was clearly not enamoured of his pushchair. No, not nearly as good as being held in someone's arms. The only thing it was good for was carrying the shopping. Did you know that every shop is set out as a slalom for pushchairs and prams? I had been ignorant of this purpose till I started to negotiate them. And when your pushchair has a will of its own (and boy, does this one have a will of its own), places like Lakeland become scary. I don't remember it being this hard with a pram all those years ago. Imagine trying to steer a toddler as well.

With LHG getting worked up, we decided it was a good point to stop for lunch, With the two of us enjoying a sandwich and a cup of coffee, it would have been an ideal time for him to tuck in himself. So what did he do? Fell asleep, little mouth open, away with the fairies.

Later, with Giovanna trying to find nursing bras in her size, he awoke once again. She carried and jiggled and rocked while I searched, then I carried and jiggled and rocked while she searched for this illusive size. Finally, with only two such bras in existence it seemed, we headed for the till. LHG was not only screaming by this point, but smelly. I headed off for the baby change rooms while Giovanna parted with much cash (have you seen the price of nursing bras?). My grandson hates, abhors and detests having his nappy changed, so by the time Giovanna turned up, he was in full, red-faced screeching mode. She sat and fed him while I escaped to buy my magazine.

Four hours after we'd set off, we arrived home, exhausted. Unlike a lot of babies, LHG doesn't fall asleep in the car.

A few days later, we repeated the shopping experience with Great Grandad TC and my step mother-in-law, Great Grandma C. After a couple of hours of pass the baby, the grandparents went ahead and started whispering to each other. Were they sorry they'd ever started on this shopping trip? Were they planning their escape? No, it seems they'd come up with an idea. While I danced and jiggled with LHG, they took Giovanna to look at baby slings. She chose a simple, fabric one. He snuggled in and was out like a light.

So far it's been a great success.

At last!

No, it hasn't taken another 11 days for Blodwyn to be born, though it seemed like it at the time.

We returned to the maternity department at 6pm, as instructed. JW's mum was there to meet us. I had a text from the OH at 7.45: Hope u r not on 4 another long night. So did we.

I recall at some point JW coming to tell us Giovanna was 5cm dilated. His mum and I sat in the corridor, mostly on the wide window sills, the three (!) chairs provided being monumentally uncomfortable. Apart from which, they were occupied much of the night by sleeping fathers-to-be. Why were they there, I wondered. Had they had enough of nothing happening or did they just not want to be at the business end of the birth?

Several women walked down the corridor to admissions, huffing and puffing, Most did the return journey, disappointed, some hour or two later. With the maternity department full, these women were doomed to roam the grounds or go home, only to repeat the experience some time in the near future.

Every now and again new mums would appear, being pushed in a bed to a ward, new babe in arms. One or two were even walking! For a while, one father-to-be paced up and down the corridor, mobile phone glued to his ear, giving several relatives updates on the situation. Finally, someone poked their head around the door of one of the wards and called him. He sprinted excitedly down its length. He and his partner appeared in the corridor with their new sprog later on. JW's mother and I were still waiting.

Around 10.30, we were allowed in briefly to see how Giovanna was getting on. Sitting on the bed, she was sucking in the gas and air like she was an industrial vacuum cleaner. And it was her second tank. 'Remember what I told you about Christine?' I said. She nodded limply.

Many years before, a friend of mine had almost gone to sleep overdoing on the gas and air. It was when she heard the midwife proclaim, as if from far away, 'If she keeps on with that, it'll be hours before this baby's born,' that she finally put the mask down and got on with it.

Giovanna, undeterred by my cautionary tale, stuck the tube back in her mouth (no more masks!) and resumed her Dyson impression.

I sent a text to the OH, explaining she was 7cm dilated. His reply? Should be soon then. You wouldn't think he was a father of four.

At quarter to eleven I received this text from Aunty C: I think I'd have asked them to cut it out by now! Lest anyone think her heartless, I must explain that she's a vet, and a farm vet at that. All the same, I'm rather relieved Giovanna didn't give birth ultra quickly the weekend before when C was visiting!

Around 4.30am, Giovanna appeared in the corridor, no babe in arms, being moved to another ward for the final push. But she was going to need a little help. She didn't register us at all, JW giving a brief explanation as he trotted behind.

Little else was happening in the corridor by this time, apart from a grandfather (the only one we saw) sitting on the uncomfy chairs, having a quiet quarrel on his mobile. I think it was with his wife.

A little after five, I noticed it was getting light. By now JW's mum and I had got a second wind. I felt like I'd never sleep again, though by this time I'd slept only three hours in the previous 74.

Six o'clock in the morning, Saturday 6th August, and finally JW appeared to greet us with the happy news. LHG had been born just after 5.30, all 8lbs 9oz of him, screaming his annoyance at being extracted with forceps from his cosy room.

JW's mum ('Nana') and I popped in to see our grandson. Giovanna looked remarkably well considering what she'd just been through. I think at some point I said, 'It's not called labour for nothing,' though she'd clearly worked that out for herself.

Nana reckoned LHG was the spit of JW as a newborn, whereas I was convinced he looked like his Uncle Peter and Uncle Jack. Ah, that's grandmothers for you!

In out, in out, shake it all about.

Shaking it all about may be the next option for Giovanna.

It is 2pm on Friday, and we've been to hospital twice today already.

10.30pm, Thursday. Phone call: 'Contractions are four to five minutes apart, the hospital has told me to have a bath and ring...'  Unable to finish the sentence due to a contraction, James took over. I scooted round there, waited while she finished her bath and made the phone call. Part way through, I took over, as another pain assailed her. This had to be it.

You don't notice all the bumps and lumps in a road until you're driving a woman in labour to hospital. Every three to four minutes it was, 'Ow, ow, owww!' Huff in, puff out, till finally a sigh as it passed over.

Shortly after we reached our destination, JW's mother arrived and we sat in the waiting room for the prognosis. Conclusion: 3cm dilated. 'You can either walk round and round to get it going, or go home and rest,' the midwife told her. 'I'm not going home!' she declared, promptly doing a tour of the hospital grounds with JW.

His mum and I reminisced about our own labours (her three lasted 2 hours, 20 minutes and 10 minutes - not fair!). They popped back a couple of times, during which JW pointed out the graffitied, let's say, male appendage  drawn high on the wall. 'Ironic,' I pointed out,'Since that's what's brought us here'. 'Yeah,' agreed JW. 'I'm surprised they didn't write "It's all you fault!" underneath.' Poor Giovanna. It's hard to laugh when you're in pain.

After another walk, Giovanna was back, deciding regretfully that she couldn't trek around the hospital grounds all night.

I drove them home as the sun appeared over Essex - an intense orange ball I've never seen the like of before. Amazing. Giovanna was too busy huffing and puffing to notice.

Three hours sleep later, JW was on the phone, so back we went. At least the cafe was open this time so I was able to wile away a couple of hours reading and drinking coffee before they appeared again. This time they had instructions to return at 6pm to have her waters broken. Fitting, since that was the time she was due to go in for induction. The labour suites being filled to absolute capacity prevented them from breaking her waters there and then.

Funny, I've never known many people with August birthdays, but the future years will obviously be filled with them. And, there's not even holiday time or bad weather to blame.

Yes it is, no it isn't

As Aunty C left for the wilds of the West Country on Monday, she said, rather forlornly, 'I suppose Blod will turn up the moment I'm gone.'

My OH, away in Wales over Tuesday and Wednesday to attend a funeral (ironically at the other end of the mortal coil) was similarly convinced. It looked like he might be right when I had a text from Giovanna Tuesday evening saying, 'Dnt want 2 worry u,' - which is guaranteed to do just that - 'bt ive been havin regular but spread out bak crampy type things.'

This was more hopeful than the vague back ache she'd been complaining of earlier. My own contractions had happened in my back all those years ago, so maybe hers would to. When I rang the OH to tell him, he moaned, 'I thought it would happen while I was away!'

A text at 4.30 the following morning seemed to confirm his fears: 'Had a show n my contractions are closer now.' She rang the hospital but they don't want to see you unless your contractions are three to four minutes apart, or your waters have broken.

By quarter past nine, the contractions were five to ten minutes apart, 'n have been 4 the last 5 hours'. Eh? Only four in the last five hours but ten minutes apart? Got to love text speak - she meant 'have been for the last five hours'!

Passing on the info to interested parties, I got an email back from a friend: 'OMG OMG OMG!!!!! This is it!'

Except it wasn't. A day and a half later, and she's still waiting. 'They never show all this waiting round in films!' Giovanna grumbled. Bet she's glad she didn't rush off to hospital 4.30 yesterday morning!

Aunty C and the nephew no-show

A lovely week went by at my Writers' holiday, the latter word being a misnomer if ever I heard one. Saturday, I returned home to an untidy house (what did I expect leaving three men in charge?) and a visit from Aunty C who had boyfriend and dogs in tow. Blod, she figured, being five days late. would surely make an appearance over the weekend.

Early Sunday morning my husband's mobile rang out, causing him to leap out of bed - not easy when you're on the wall side. I sat bolt upright, looking hopeful, till he mouthed 'Work call' at me. Work call, on a Sunday? Someone needs to get a life. 'Why is your phone even on?' I enquired after the conversation was over. 'Um, because we're waiting for a call from our daughter?' he replied without quite saying, 'Duh!' Well, it was early. 

Later on that day, we marched Giovanna around a country park in the beautiful Darent Valley, Aunty C, boyfriend, dogs and all. It was hot and uphill. Mum-to-be complained of sciatic pain and a need for the loo, but other than that - nothing. Apart from my husband deciding he might like to be called 'Pa', like my great-grandad.

At around six we took Giovanna home so she could make something for dinner with chilli. That obviously hasn't worked either. She's already tried pineapple and raspberry leaf tea - together! - to no avail.

It's now Monday evening. Aunty C and entourage have gone back to the West Country, disappointed.  She's trudging back next weekend as Giovanna is due to be induced on Friday. Finally, she'll get to meet her first nephew. 

Probably.

Today's the day?

Today is meant to be the day Blodwyn is born, but of course, I'm 170 miles away on a Writers' Holiday in the Land of his Great Grandmothers.

A text to Giovanna, enquiring after her status, has informed me she had pains at 4.30 this morning. Since then, nothing. I'm in a quandary, part of me not wishing continual discomfort on her, the other part willing her to hold on. It would be lovely to hear of Blod's safe arrival, but it would be nice to be there on day 1.

Giovanna jokes that her birth is the only time in her life she wasn't late for something. Time will tell if her son takes after her.

Ultimately, he'll come when he comes.

Will Blod take after his mummy?

Trigger's Moses Basket.

Last night I put together little Blodwyn's Moses basket. Both his mummy and Uncle Jack slept in it, so it's a bit of an heirloom.  I had to buy a new stand, mattress, sheets and blankets. The basket and covers are fine - apart from a little overstretched elastic which can be easily replaced.

One generation down the line though, maybe Blod, or one of his siblings or cousins, will be replacing the covers, or deciding the basket's a bit worn. Another generation on, things may be replaced for the second or third time. Then it'll be like Trigger's broom - it's lasted four generations, but had two baskets, four mattresses, four sets of covers, three stands...

But for now, half of it is original.

Three days(ish) to go.

Great Grandfather TC and the problem of names.

It's been a long haul finding a (real) name for Blodwyn Bubaloo. In the early days, looking at Welsh names, Giovanna came up with Myfanwy and JW liked Dylan. I had to point out that Dylan is pronounced 'Dullan' in Welsh, and Myfanwy is as old-fashioned as Ethel. Another name toyed with was Aaron. That's guaranteed to cause confusion on the pronunciation front. It used to be pronounced 'Airon', which is how Giovanna said it, but these days people say 'Arun'. Why, I wonder? If you want to call your child that, why not just spell it Arun, or Aran, or Arran. You get the idea.

I had an email from my father-in-law, Great Grandad TC today, on the subject of names. Seems he's worried what Giovanna and JW might come up with for his great-grand sprog. He's afraid Posh and Becks might have started a trend.

'We've heard of the Shrewsbury Two,' he told me. 'We all know of the Champagne Four of course,' (our nickname for ourselves and our spouses!). 'Then there's the Renault Five (guilty as hell we always thought!) - the Birmingham Six - but the Harper Seven?'

He has a point. It does sound rather like a crime syndicate. However, he thinks it, 'Sounds more like a detergent cleansing fluid.'

I pointed out that he'd forgotten the Weatherfield One and Ocean's Eleven. Then it struck me. 'Oceans Eleven'. What a great name! Now where's my daughter's number?

Seven days(ish) to go!

Meet the Fockers

I’m glad to report that the ‘Meet the Fockers’ evening went well – not at all like the film. As I suspected, they are as crazy as us. I was told beforehand by JW that at family functions they're split up because they laugh too much. This I can believe. 

It helped that the soon-to-be grandads both come from the same place ‘oop north’ and have a similar profession. Many bizarre-incidents-at-work stories followed. They never got onto music, but I’m assured the other grandad is as keen as my husband on all things ‘hifi’. They’re what you might call Northern Stereo – Types. (Don’t blame me for that – it was on a birthday card I sent my husband a couple of years ago.)

It always breaks the ice to hear funny stories about the offsprings’ childhoods, and us grandmas had plenty. Uncles Peter and Jack, along with JW's sister, Aunty J, also put their two penn'orth in. Not that Giovanna and JW appreciated it. Spoilsports. What’s not to love about sons weeing in the corner of their room because they were half asleep and thought they were in the bathroom? Or that your daughter has a phobia against little round things like beads which started as a hatred of peas when she was a tot? (She blames me for that one, as I apparently told her not to put them up her nose in case she choked. That’s sensible, isn’t it?)


At least now my husband and I will recognise our opposite numbers when we see them at the hospital. Nine days to go. Give or take.

Timing

A few days ago, and with two official weeks to go, the midwife told Giovanna, 'Only four weeks at the most.'

It wasn't what she wanted to hear.

'I feel like I'm going to explode!' she complained to me last night. 'I'm ready to have it now.'

It does look like someone's suddenly blown a whole load of air into her bump.

I hope she produces a little early too, as I am away on a writing holiday on her due date. It was all planned a year ago. I have struggled with my conscience. But you know what? I bet if I'd cancelled, Blodwyn would have been late. I'm only going to be in Wales. If need be, I'll get a train back for the day. Anyway, there's not a lot you can do while they're in hospital. Giovanna doesn't seem troubled by my possible short term absence.

My friends and I did threaten to take her with us, being a writer herself. There's an 'ysbyty' across the road from the uni where we're staying (hospital, for the benefit of the unWelsh). She could have popped along when she felt ready to 'pop', as it were.

The only problem is, if Blodwyn does arrive while I'm away, then every year his birthday will be during the writers' holiday. Now that will be a dilemma.

Come on Blod, hurry up!

Babies - A whole new excuse to shop

The one thing all the grandmas have in common? They've all been busy acquiring clothing and equipment for little Blodwyn Bubaloo. Just when you think you've run out of reasons to go shopping - along comes a new one!

Even Giovanna's sister, Aunty C, has been trawling the charity shops with my step mother-in-law. They've come up with some lovely stuff, dinky all-in-ones, shorts and t-shirts with doggies and bears on. Clothes that look like they've never been worn, quite frankly.

In actual fact, I've done little shopping so far. The reason? I am more of a hoarder than I thought. Take the nappy situation. Giovanna decided she was going to use eco nappies, shaped like disposables, but washable. I used them 20 odd years ago and thought they were fab. With the pram, cot and high chair already taken care of by the other grandmas, I said we'd buy them for her. I'm glad my husband made it into the loft first. I still have all the eco nappies up there, every one, all in good condition. Who'd have thought? There was also a whole range of clothes, neatly packed in old disposable nappy boxes with ages scrawled on the side in felt pen.

'These are great,' said Giovanna, surveying the pile of pastels. 'They have history. I like that.' Then she noticed the green and lilac striped shorts and matching mauve top. 'Mmm. Not sure about these. They're a bit - way out. And these.' She pointed to another set. 'I'm not sure about lilac for a boy.'

'What do you mean?' I replied. 'They're cute.'

'Some things don't stand the test of time.'

Oh well, maybe I'll have to sneak them on when I'm baby sitting.

You're going to be a grandma (or great grandma!)

When Giovanna told me she was pregnant I was far more laid back than she expected. What can you do when your daughter announces she's with child, even when it's sooner than you expected? But maybe my reaction was a little too underplayed?

The other grandmas were not so unforthcoming in their reactions.

JW's mother, new to grandmotherhood like myself, apparently burst into tears. Ahh. Well, I'm guessing it was 'ahh', and not 'oh dear'! Yes, I'm certain it was.

My own mother-in-law, 'Great-Gran', was over the moon. She is a little shell-shocked at being the first great-grandmother in the group, as she keeps telling me, even though she wasn't the first grandmother. Other than that, she's enjoying all the updates.

My step mother-in-law got so excited when we told her, she spilled a whole glass of champagne over my husband. Sacrilege darling!

I wonder how my own mum would have felt. I'm sad she's not here to see. She would have been as thrilled as his other grandmas, I'm sure.

Crazy Uncles

Tonight is going to be our 'Meet the Fockers' evening. That is, the first time we've met little Blod's other grandparents, mum and dad of Giovanna's partner, JW.

It sounds like their family might be as mad as ours. I'm not sure if that's good or bad. Giovanna's brothers, Uncle Peter and Uncle Jack are vying for spot as craziest uncle. This is in no small part down to their own Uncle M (soon to be Great-Uncle M!). He's my husband's brother - I take no responsibility for him. He's been the weird and wonderful uncle who has introduced my children to things like sailing, juggling and unicycling. As a young man, when my husband was settling down with a family, he was travelling around the world, coming back full of stories, if none the wiser about the languages he'd encountered. He's always bought the looniest presents - little plastic people you throw at walls so they stick, potty putty that drove my mother-in-law up the wall. One Christmas, having just moved house, he wrapped up a pile of unwanted lamp fittings and shades to give as presents. He thought it was hilarious. Once upon a time he used to refuse to dress up for nice restaurants, favouring holey jumpers and worn jeans.

I guess you'd call that eccentric. Blod's uncles would like to emulate him. They're part way there already.

Surprise, surprise

When you've got four children, it's going to happen sometime. Now there's only 17 days to go. Give or take.

I didn't expect it for a few years, but I knew what was coming last December when my no. 3 child, Giovanna, sat me down to 'tell me something'. It had come as a bit of a surprise to her too. She and her partner had not long set up home together and weren't planning this event for a while. Still, there it was, their first baby and my first grandchild.

I wasn't as shocked as she expected. 'That's bad news,' she decided. 'You and dad are always like good cop and bad cop. That means he's going to be the cross one.'

She was wrong. Probably because he couldn't quite take it in. I don't think he has yet. It'll take the appearance of little Blodwyn Bubaloo (my nickname combined with her partner's nickname) to make him realise he's a grandad. Not that he's decided on a name for himself yet.

Me, I decided long ago I was going to be 'Nonna'. My name and that of my daughter might give a clue why. My father was Italian and Nonna is what they call grandmothers in Italy. My husband doesn't fancy Nonno, the male equivalent. I agree it doesn't quite sound right in English. I'm also half Welsh, so I did briefly consider 'Nain' (pron. 'nine'), the male equivalent being 'Taid' (pron. 'tide'), but the Italian side won out.

The only name my husband has come up with so far is 'Grand Sponser'. It is, of course, a joke. I hope.