As I sit in my La-Z-Boy writing this column on my laptop, I have two telephones – my standard landline cordless and my cellphone – within reach.

It’s necessary that I be close to a phone because Carol and I are on baby watch and we have been in this quasi-emergency mode for five days.

The reason for this state of preparedness around our home is because my youngest son Steven and his wife Cynthia are with child, or more accurately are soon to be giving birth to our newest grandchild, which will make five for us.

As they live in Keswick and will head to Southlake Hospital in Newmarket when the time comes, they have asked us to care for their daughter, our granddaughter, five-year-old Mackenzie. So we’re on high alert because the day is near and because mom has been experiencing Braxton Hicks contractions for about a week.

I thought a Braxton Hicks was a fancy brand of shotgun, or perhaps an expensive fishing reel. I have since found out it’s what we used to call false labour, which can precede real labour.

While Carol would prefer that I put my life on hold until the baby arrives, I choose to carry on with my normal routine, which included a round of golf with friends the other day. I carried my cellphone with me, but hoped it wouldn’t chirp because I was having an unusually good game that day.

My son, being a golfer too, understands. My daughter-in-law, a self-described neurotic pregnant lady, barely tolerates my attitude, I’m sure.

Like a lot of parents these days, they wanted to know the sex of the baby before it arrived. In my opinion, one of the best things about a new baby is the surprise you get at the conclusion of all that pushing and screaming.

They were told the imminent bundle of joy will “probably” be a girl. That qualified prediction comes from an ultra-sound technician who doesn’t want to be blamed when parents decorate the nursery with pink flamingos or elephants only to discovered that young Ebenezer or Hezekiah (boys’ names I believe are too often overlooked these days) would prefer something in blue.

So here we sit, waiting to meet Megan Elizabeth for the first time.
My suggestions of Wilhelmina, Millicent or Clementine were hastily rejected, so Megan it is; a name to which I have already taken a shine. But it might have been a nice gesture if Megan’s second name had been taken from either of my grandmothers, Violet or Jenny.

My family has featured a few uniquely-named individuals and my grandfather Oak Thornton Ballantyne tops the list. I have never seen Oak used as a first name and never asked him what he thought of the name, but I’m sure he preferred it to Pricklypear, Honeysuckle or “Hey Yew!”