The granddaughter has arrived. Her name is Poppy. Photo / Getty Images
It all began with a phone call at 11.15pm a week ago yesterday.
Mrs P had already adjusted her new electric bed to the required gradient and was slipping further into dreams of a husband with a six-pack - abdominal muscles that is, not Lion Red – and I was locking up and turning the lights off.
Now I don't know about you dear reader, but to me a phone call at that time of night usually suggests something is amiss.
It was either that or some bloke from India telling me (again) the rubber band on my computer has broken.
Any way.
What I got was Builder Boy, my son-in-law-to-be, who very calmly explained our 36- weeks-pregnant daughter, Boomerang Child, had been rushed to hospital.
Now it would not be proper for me to go into the nitty-gritty of what had occurred medically, but keen followers of the plethora of medical shows on telly will have deduced by now that a baby is about to be born and it's going to be four weeks early.
But there were some complications.
Thankfully, Builder Boy had switched to crisis mode, perfected by some years as an officer in the army, and was able to present everything clearly. Nonetheless it was scary, particularly when words like "emergency" and "breathing" peppered the conversation.
It got even scarier when he abruptly ended the conversation and disappeared. Attempts to call back went straight to his voicemail.
Needless to say Mrs P and I introduced the speedometer in the Pagemobile to some new numbers as we raced the hour and a bit from where we were to get to the cherub in need.
When we arrived at the hospital there was the mandatory long wait for information.
In fairness I should point out here the use of the word "long" is subjective. It goes to your state of mind at the time. For Mrs P and I, desperate to find out what had occurred, it seemed an interminable wait. In reality it was probably just 10 minutes.
Thankfully, when the news did arrive it was all good.
Builder Boy's calm call to us had been ended by the medical decision to get to an operating theatre immediately. Like "Now!". No time even to say goodbye on the phone.
And so the medical people had done what they do best and before you could utter the phrase "life-changing", a tiny little baby girl had joined our family.
It turns out she's a fighter too.
There was a scary bit early on and she's had to have one of those nose tube things to help feed, but in the main she's where they need her to be health wise, which, from what I've deduced, seems to be assessed by the amount of wee and poo she produces.
I will never forget the look on the face of Builder Boy the first time he managed to put a nappy on his baby daughter. Full of pride best sums it up. Followed seconds later by a look of complete and utter shock as she discharged more effluent than you'd think possible from such a wee one.
It has been full on this past week with things like learning to feed and getting clothes organised – she had heaps of newborn-size clothing but nothing for a premature baby needing warmth coming into winter.
That clicking noise you hear up and down the country isn't cicadas saying goodbye to summer, it's friends and family from Whangārei to Whanganui and beyond knitting booties, mittens and hats. Tiny ones.
Any way. She's home now and Mrs P, aka Supernan, is taking some time to help Boomerang Child get into the swing of things.
They have finally come up with a name too.
Ever since the pregnancy was revealed and the parents-to-be discovered the bub was the size of a flower seed, they have called her a particular name.
It seemed appropriate to retain it on her arrival, but they weren't 100 per cent sure. Various other names were bandied about. Some made you cringe inside, but obviously you just smiled, nodded in approval and told yourself it was their choice not yours.
I'm sure you know what I mean.
So, the baby arrived, still officially nameless, and at 4.30am Builder Boy and I go outside to fetch something from the car I had hastily and randomly parked hours previously.
And there, on the number plate of the car next to us – surely a sign if ever there was one – was the name they've been using for a while and which they have now chosen.
Poppy.
• Kevin Page is a teller of tall tales with a firm belief too much serious news gives you frown lines. Feel free to share stories to editor@northernadvocate.co.nz (Kevin Page in subject field).