Well, the honeymoon is officially over.
The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge have produced The Heir.
I was kind of hoping for a girl, just to mix things up, to test how well-adapted the Commonwealth really is to the idea of a firstborn daughter being the official third-in-line, subsequent son or no. Twins would have been even more interesting. If Kate had had a C-section, would gender have been a factor in deciding which child to pluck forth first?
The kids kicked the can down the road on this one, and a boy it is. I can handle it.
If I sound jaded and ho-hum about this, I'm leaving the wrong impression. I just completed CNN's photo tour of House of Windsor babies, and I've spent a good chunk of time today clicking around various news sources to see what else I might learn about the new arrival. The official birth announcement posted on the Royal Easel outside of Buckingham Palace is a charming tradition, but c'mon already, it's a little dullsville for those of us hungry for the particulars.
I have a weakness for royal events. (FLASH: The fountains at Trafalgar Square are now flowing blue!) I stayed up all night to watch Charles and Diana's wedding. I was there (okay, not in person, or even in country, for that matter) for the birth of William. Of Harry. I remember precisely where I was when I heard of Diana's death. Another all-nighter to watch her funeral. Yet another to view William's marriage to Catherine. I spent the entire weekend in front of the TV for the Queen's kazillionth jubilee.
The Royals have been thoughtful this time around. A birth midday, Pacific Daylight Time, suits me just fine—I've not been getting my sleep of late. I think grandmama the Queen is glad the moment's come. She's been a little petulant, it seems, about the infant's arrival interfering with the holiday she'd been planning. (FLASH: It was a vaginal birth!) Grandpappy Charles has been droll, which could suggest glee or ennui, hard to tell. The parents-to-be, now the parents-that-are, have been remarkably chipper, considering the telephoto lenses trained on them for three years at the least. (FLASH: William is quoted as saying, "We could not be happier.") Their temperance has been notable; who wants their reproductive life bright-lit under the constant loupe? How many experts do we have by now, able to count back nine months on their fingers?
Forget med school. Forget the plumbers' union. Forget the art institute or call-center training. One thing The Cambridges won't be wondering is what the lad will be when he grows up. Who he will be is quite another matter. In this task, I wish them well. They'll do a good job. I know; I've been watching that family for years.
But gee whiz, couldn't they have had a girl?
(FLASH: Bookmakers are giving 6:1 odds that the baby will be named George.)
Nancy Carol Moody
I'm a poet and a letter-writer. Yup, that kind. The kind who uses pens and paper and actual stamps. The kind who will leave the house with nothing on the agenda but to get to the mailbox before the scheduled pick-up time. The kind who understands that technology is a wondrous thing, but nothing quite beats finding a real letter with a real stamp on it amid the credit card solicitations, pizza coupons and seminar catalogs.