A nephew arrived in my life this January, a child long-awaited by his grandparents, one that's apparently turned my younger brother's whole life around. I can hear it in his voice when we speak. The very fact that we even speak the way we do this year is completely down to this tiny little person, and that, people, that is a miracle.
I met him at a lunch by the harbour in my home town, drinking posh tea from silver pots and sweet, old lady china, watching my parents very different reactions to their first, perhaps only, grandchild. Dad - proud, jolly, assured. Mum - standoffish and totally disinterested. Perhaps in mum's response there's an inkling of how the disinterest in small people of my own arose.
Did my own bodyclock start sounding an alarm in response to all this bambino joy?
Not at all. Not a sound. In fact, I felt incredibly light afterward, assured, yet again, that I made all the right choices.
The Guardian has a great little affirming piece well-worth a read this week, for the childless among us.