Uncle Ben

Babies. They’re supposed to be all adorable and cooey and snuggly and wonderful and we’re all supposed to spend obscene amounts of time talking about how beautiful and amazing and gifted they are because they can still shove their toes in their own mouths. I get it. But really? I don’t care about them. I don’t want to hold them, feed them, change them, or generally be around them until they’re old enough to be cool and impressionable.

Maybe it’s because I was the baby of the family and didn’t get much exposure to those little nuggets of unadulterated bodily functions, maybe it’s because they make me think about the downstairs mess that cruel new moms insist on teaching me about, but seriously just call me when they’re five and will think I’m Jesus for introducing them to lego and cheese strings.

Or at least that’s what I would have said this time last week.

You know that cliché scene that hits around season five or six of every television series ever made where the main characters are all huddled together in a hospital lobby, waiting to hear good news from the delivery room? My Saturday afternoon was like that…except the hospital was the international arrivals of the Halifax Airport, the pregnancy build-up was four years instead of nine months, and most of us were too overwhelmed to say anything witty or insightful beyond “ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod THERE THEY ARE!!”

Yes – my new favourite person in the entire universe came home this past weekend and I’m still processing the amazing experience it was to watch his beautiful parents walk him through the doors to be greeted by his new grandparents, aunts, uncles, godparents, and biggest fans. We only saw him for about half an hour, you know, since his parents probably want to uhh…adjust to being parents, but I’m already obsessed. I expect it’ll be years until I can look at him without welling up just knowing what he has come from and the life he’s going to get with his new family.

Given the pure mania of the whole situation, we haven’t heard a whole lot about their week in Ethiopia just yet but when his folks walked into the orphanage to meet their baby for the first time, he was there in his crib, gripping onto the only toy in the whole building for dear life – a fleecy blanket with a giraffe’s head that his parents had sent over months earlier. AND OH MY GOD I DON’T REMEMBER THE REST OF THE STORY BECAUSE I WAS TOO BUSY GASPING FOR BREATH IN BETWEEN HAPPY SOBS.

Now all I do is bounce up and down at home, asking the newf over and over again if it’s too early to call, show up unannounced at their house, or steal their baby and make for the border. But wait – don’t think I’ve gone soft on you guys. In order to make the right first impression and manage expectations, I was devastatingly hungover from our office’s open bar holiday party.