Snow Babies

They're here! They arrived on Wednesday evening, when the whole of Ireland was suspended under snow, the doom stuck up somewhere in the messy ice drifts and under the snowmen; and we were suspended in a fug of epidural and the ancient art of midwifery. Our two boys pushed into the world, observed by a room worthy of an ER set (2 paediatricians, a registrar, how many med students, medics, midwives), and a mother, drifting deliriously above it all, elated beyond belief. Two baby boys, tiny but fully alive and well, 4 pounds 15 ounces and 4 pounds 12. If you don't know what that means, google it and let the rest of us know. I can't talk to Europeans about baby birth weights.

That was a million years ago. And a few epochs later, we escaped from the post-natal ward and Evil Olga the night midwife. At home, we satellite around their cots (whether upstairs or downstairs): Mummy, Daddy, and Amazing Auntie Ollie. We discuss breastfeeding, at length; we discuss nappies. We drink tea and eat cake. Simon cooks and cooks and plays jazz for his sons to develop good taste. This strange honeymoon is perhaps the happiest I have ever been. Outside, there is still snow on the ground; the light bouncing off it blue on our babies' faces.

What are they called? People are so anxious to know. Time to start comparing the twins (are they identical?)! They are called our snow babies. For the season that's in it, I thought Fintan and Vincent might be a good pair of names - but it won't be that. All in good time. They have a whole lifetime ahead of them.

We are happy. Our babies have arrived.

Thanks everyone for the messages, which made me cry again and again. I will try to get in touch over the next few weeks. Forgive me though, I'm a bit delirious.