Holy God-Daughter sitting

This weekend my sister and her hubby had a romantic weekend away...which meant I got left holding the not-yet-a-year baby. Of course, it wasn't just any old baby. This baby is my first ever god-child. And even beyond this relationship, we share a very special bond.

Let me explain. I went through the first few decades of my life knowing I was spectacularly holy. This stems from the fact that not only was I born on a Sunday, but I was born on the same day as Pope John Paul II. Every year I'd blow out the candles on my wee birthday cake, imagining dear old JP doing the same. There is an aching gap now on my birthdays...the candles don't burn so bright, the strains of 'Happy Birthday to You' echo in the emptiness.

But then Catherine was born last year. And not only was Catherine born on a Sunday, she decided to arrive on Easter Sunday. And the strangest thing? This little lady was born on the same day as the New Pope's birthday... My lucky birthday and Catherine's lucky birthday means we are not just Aunt and Neice, or Godmother and God-daughter. No. My official title is The Holy Godmother, while she is The Holy God-daughter.

Anyway. I 'baby-sat' The Holy God-daughter from Friday to Sunday. I didn't drop her, and she didn't scream the house down. But the whole weekend I was left wondering why they call it baby-sitting. Coz there wasn't a whole lot of 'sitting' done. There was plenty of wiping, feeding, cleaning, running aftering, picking upping, shushing, singing, rocking etc. But not a lot of sitting.

I guess it's the desperate parents who invented the baby 'sitting' term. A ploy to have you believe it will be all about a clean, pink-faced baby snoozing in a crib, while you relax on the sofa, having a little me time. And I guess anyone who spends most of their days and nights with one or two or six of those little things is entitled to a little white lie in order to bring in the Holy Godmothers among us...

I had worries that baby-sitting the Holy God-daughter might lead me to contemplate becoming a mammy myself. I mean, I'm of That Age where I should be consumed by the urge to procreate, to ensure my fabulousness will be passed down to another generation. But even after a lovely Sunday morning, where Cat sat on my knee singing (as opposed to sitting on the floor screaming) there were no yearnings...no little 'wouldn't it be nice if...' This might be because I firmly believe I am the peak of all Gallen breeding from the last however many centuries, and that I wouldn't want to be the Parent of a Disappointing Child (the Catholic church has four separate saints devoted to Parents of Disappointing Children...St Matilda's my favourite)

Final thing. When asked by someone what weight your godchild is, it is not wise to answer 'oh, she's heavier than my laptop'.