I spent Sunday at a family Christening. Nearly everyone else present was a parent, or, of course, said parent’s small cute offspring. And Lord help me, but they were cute, not least the little christenee himself, who was as sunny and good-tempered and uninclined to wail as one would seriously not expect a five-month-old to be. Even when the vicar took him and sloshed water all over his face he merely looked long-suffering and faintly bemused. The very Bible readings were done by relay-teams of seven-year-olds, solemnly taking one verse each, and, crucially, not shoving each other even so much as once. Yet further outbreaks of infant sweetness ran about hugging each other and practising dance-steps while the grown-ups ate lunch.
I’m not joking. They too did so.
I don’t think they really were children. I think they were hired from an agency for the event.
I even gave young christenee a cuddle, which he graciously responded to by holding onto my fingers and gurgling.
And in all this, not one person, not one, asked me when I was having kids, if I was having kids, or why I hadn’t had kids yet.
Note to the other side of my family, who weren’t there: See? That wasn’t so hard.