5.18am. I sit at the kitchen table. Alone. Exhausted and elated. Undergraduate philosophy comes back to me. Wittgenstein’s Tractatus. “Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must pass over in silence.” And what can one say of the birth of one’s children? Born either side of midnight, twins with different birthdays. A daughter born at 23.57 on Monday 3 October and a son at 00.17 on Tuesday 4 October. 4 pounds and 11 ounces and 5 pounds and 6 ounces respectively. Ten days early but both healthy and born with limited medical intervention, although not without considerable pain. And unnamed as yet. Emma had feared naming them, for superstitious reasons. They are beautiful. Perfect. Both with dark hair and blue eyes. I scroll through the photographs on the digital camera. Yesterday morning’s huge belly. Then a sequence of photographs as we arrived at the clinic. And then nothing for five hours, until a flurry of photographs just before midnight and another, barely 20 minutes later. And then, cleaned up and swaddled, the twins, together, in their exhausted mother’s arms.
They should be home before the end of the week. Maria has called Gabriella, the newly-appointed nanny, who arrives tomorrow to ensure that we’re all set to receive mother and babies by Thursday.
And Noel. Noel is asleep upstairs. He won’t know until the morning that he is a big brother. Yesterday he asked, “Daddy, will you and Mummy still love me as much when the twins arrive?”
“Of course we will,” I answered.
“Our hearts will grow bigger. We’ll simply have more love. There won’t be any dilution in…”. “Dilution?” I ask myself. Where did that come from? This isn’t a rights issue with stock dilution. It’s, well, far more serious than that. More a special dividend. Although non-recurring, hopefully.