Finally, the royal wait is over, and a future king has been born. As I write, my screens are filled with live coverage of the easel birth announcement, and the colorful announcer on the hospital steps sporting a plumed headdress and large brass bell, calling out pertinent information to the cheering crowd.
I scanned the easel for the bit of information I’d been waiting for: both mother and son are doing well. Mothers of mothers need to know that first.
Soon, I’m sure, Prince Charles and the Queen and the Middletons will begin the royal qvell,* to which they are mightily entitled, not because a future king has been born, but because they are grandparents and great-grandparents. Kate and baby are fine and this child will be exceptional (do all grandparents feel this way?). Royal or not, “Baby Cambridge” is someone to love and cherish and fuss over and sing to and grandparent. Life is good.
And the Duchess and Prince? They had the birth they had planned for, we are told. They are not only Duchess and future king. They are lucky ducks. And as I wait for my own grandchild to appear, I am eager to quack myself.
*qvell is an old Yiddish word meaning to burst with pride