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!

Blethering already

Don't you think? A definite moment of communication! But what do you say, confronted by the really big events in your life? I can write about trivia to a band playing, can even waste yards of text on such trifles as pew leaflets, but right now I feel a tad lost for words. This totally tiny person, who wasn't known to anyone except her mother a week ago and who already has a perfect little face and a personality and perfect pianist's hands and is smaller than either her father or her uncle ever were - she's a miracle.

And yesterday we took her, and her mother and father, and a carload of balloons, teddies, flowers, clothes as well as all our luggage, home. A terrifying responsibility, driving this precious load through rush-hour Edinburgh, with buses looming irresponsibly close and impatient white van drivers irritated because we were accelerating with extreme caution. But we made it, and now we're on one side of the country and Catriona (and her parents) are on t'other side. But the eminently missable Cowal Games are about to start, and they bring a plethora of ferries on the Saturday. All full coming this way, all empty going back.

Except for us. We're off to Leith!