A poem for a baby

There's a new poem over at frankenstina - and a picture of my lovely grandson. This is the poem I wrote while, all unknown to me, he was about to come into the world, so I feel rather special about it.

Alan, on the other hand, is completely special.

We are a grandmother, again

All of 15 months ago I wrote that I was quoting the Blessed Margaret for the first and last time, but here we go again. We are, for the second time, a grandmother. Neil and Mary's baby boy, Alan John McIntosh, was born about 24 hours ago in London, and he's a big boy, in the fine tradition of his father's generation of McIntosh babies.

Right now, I'm at the stage of feeling as if I'd given birth myself (no: that's hyperbole - but allow me a bit of overstatement, won't you). After Neil's call at nearly midnight (I was catching up on blog stats at the time) we wet Alan's head with a fine malt and headed, burbling, bedwards. At 3am I was up checking Flickr for the first photo (yes - it was there) and at 7am I was making bread after 4 hours of exhaustingly dream-filled sleep. This business of new life arriving really digs into the psyche, especially when the new life is 25% your own genes.

And the amazing thing for me is that yesterday, with no knowledge of the ongoing labour (some people keep their cards very close to their chests!) I wrote a poem called Mary's baby. Ok, there are seasonal impulses at play here - but I think it's quite a coincidence. At the moment, the poem is maturing and there are no photos for public consumption - but watch this space.

And Alan has his own Twitter account already!