by On Thursday lunchtime, with no warning whatsoever, I got a message from my brother: “Baby boy”. I just about fell off my chair. Then there were some pictures of the baby looking rather bashed about, as indeed he had been, then the name. We’d never even discussed names, but it’s exactly what I would have chosen. Fully 75% of his great-grandfathers were blessed with that timeless name, which is also my middle name.
His head wasn’t in the right position, so he needed a rather primitive and barbaric-looking forceps delivery, poor little chap. Though he managed to avoid being born on September 11th, he was born at 9:11 in the morning. He weighed 7 lb 11 oz, in other words slap-bang on the average. Mother and baby stayed overnight and went home the next day.
My mum is well chuffed. Her sister’s kids have been pumping out grandchildren for her at a dizzying rate – she now has thirteen of them – and now Mum’s finally got one. For our family as a whole, this is something really quite special. A wonderful oasis of hope. Yesterday I got a lovely photo of my brother holding his son who looked much less battered than the day before; I liked it so much because I could see in my brother’s eyes what he was thinking. I have a miraculous piece of life in my arms. I’ll readily admit to a certain amount of envy too. It’s an experience that, in all probability, I’ll never have.
I’ll get to see my nephew in under five weeks when I make another trip to the UK. I hope I get many more opportunities after that. Kids are quite wonderful, even if (especially if?) (only if?!) they’re not your own. In the last few years I’ve spent thousands of hours teaching children, and I feel very lucky to have had that chance. On Thursday, right after I got the news, I had two hours with 15-year-old David. In 190 sessions, I’ve seen him grow from a painfully timid boy who said “I don’t know” almost every time I asked him a question (for fear of getting the wrong answer) into a confident speaker of English who wants to become an airline pilot. His head is screwed on more tightly than either of his parents. Every session we spend a few minutes talking about planes. I often regale him of my experiences as a boy on three-engined planes like the 727 and DC-10, or when I sat in the cockpit of a 737 which my uncle captained. I like to think I’ve made a difference in all the sessions we’ve had together.
Yesterday I played Wordle for the first time in a while. For some reason my nephew’s name is valid in the international version of Scrabble, so I thought it would be in Wordle too. It was, and it gave me the second and fourth letters in the right place off the bat. After my second guess I had three letters. Ooh, but there are dozens of options. I used my third and fourth guesses to eliminate options, but still failed to get the word in six tries. For the first time ever I missed the word, and that’s when I started with my nephew’s name. Calamitous! I hope that isn’t an omen. (You might be able to guess his name now.)
I had a pair of two-hour lessons in Dumbrăvița earlier today, both with teenage boys. It’s pretty soggy here now. I’ve got poker planned for this evening.
