My son is 16 today. Déjà?!

Brainbox celebrated his 16th birthday today. Sixteen years! How did that happen? My first born, once so tiny, now so big.

I cast my mind back to when he was born on this day, 19th February. It seems, if not like yesterday, certainly not long ago; I remember the buildup to his birth and actual birth vividly.

But memory can play tricks. So I reproduce here a letter I wrote to Dave, a friend in South Africa, not quite two weeks after the birth. The Frog Queen had been in hospital since Thursday but we had invited some friends round for dinner on the Saturday. She phones me from the hospital:



“. . . and tells me that the doctors think she is actually at full term. I’m in a quandary: cancel the dinner party or invite the guests to the delivery room? I cancel.

Saturday (19th February) is D-Day. The Frog Queen in a lot of labour pain until she scores some drugs from Miss Epi Dural. I’ve been in the hospital (and in the delivery room) all day – don’t I get any drugs or, at least, a pint of Boddy’s? At about 7pm all is quiet and I’m thirsty so I tell the sage femme that I’m going to pop downstairs for a coffee.

“Righto,” she says (but with a French accent) “but don’t be long because I think we’ll have a result by eight.” What!!! Dumdad, Linford Christie-style, hares down to coffee machine and gulps down coffee (ouch, burnt my tongue!)

This is it. This is the Big One. How’s The Frog Queen? Will the baby be okay? What sex will it be? I don’t care I just hope the FQ and the baby, in that order, are okay. The midwife beckons me over and points between the FQ’s legs (I was taught it is rude to point especially at ladies and especially at that part of a woman, but I let it pass); she shines a strong light down there and indicates that what I’m seeing is the top of my baby’s head – there’re traces of hair! Does that mean I’m not the real father?

The Frog Queen’s pushing now and heaving and crying and I’m chanting “Here we go, here we go.” There’s blood and gunge and fluid everywhere, but there’s no time for squeamishness or niceties or dignity or anything else: there’s only the job at hand.

Push, push, urges the midwife. There are doctors and some nurses around and a trainee doctor who asked if he could look in; why not? Bring the family, some sandwiches and make a day of it. The Grand Opening of the Frog Queen’s legs – ringside seat only 60 francs or 100 francs for two.

Push, push, everyone seems to be shouting. Baby’s taking his time. I notice the doctor asking for forceps. Forceps! Come on, Baby! Maybe the word forceps does the trick but they aren’t needed as Baby springs out into the world. It’s a boy! For nine months I had been convinced I would have a daughter (I had long ago mentioned I would like a daughter).

But I have a son. Phew! I’m touching him and patting him within one second of his birth. Amazing.

What’s that blue tubing coming out of his stomach? Is it normally that colour? Oh, really. And his head – what’s that lump? It’s an alien. No, Mr Dumdad, that’s normal too. He’s beautiful.

While they clean up my wife, I follow baby out of the delivery room and into the place where they clean him up, weigh him, measure him, dress him etc. I carry him back to the delivery room. My wife’s in tremendous form and looks great despite the blood, sweat and tears. Actually, neither of us cried (I had thought I might) although my wife has had some weepy moments since. Hormonal, they say.

We decide on the name Noah in the delivery room. For nine months it was to be Luc if it was a boy and Annabel if it was a girl. But we had seen the name Noah a few weeks earlier and were both struck by it. “So Noah or Luc?” Her Royal Frogness asked me.

“What do you think?” I countered.

“Noah,” she said.

“Yes, Noah he is. Perfect.”

He was born at 7.50pm and time sped by after that. By about 11pm mother and son needed sleep so I left to go home. It is about a 25-minute walk from the hospital and I was in a daze as I ambled home. I crossed the Mirabeau bridge across the Seine. I stopped for a while and gazed at the Eiffel Tower, which is splendidly lit up at night (which I wasn’t, as I hadn’t touched a drop all day; in fact, I hadn’t partaken for five days or so).

The apartment seemed empty, but there was work to be done – to the telephone! It was the start of a three-day binge of phoning family, friends and strangers I picked out at random from the phone book to let them know I had the most wonderful son in the world."

And 16 years later I still have the most wonderful son in the world.

Happy birthday, my darling boy!

Brainbox opening cards and presents this morning.