There are some things in this world you never see. Like an ugly baby or a small rat. Our upbringing dictates that we squeal oh, (s)he’s gorgeous and jayzez, it’s feking huge respectively. The exception, of course, is a baby rat.

As I wrote in Snippets #9 below, my great friend Kathy is expecting her second - not rat, the other one - on Wednesday and I am on call to take care of her first, Seán, while she does the whole grunt, deep breath, push, scream thing. Then, when she has her bag packed and heads off to the hospital, for whatever she has to do there, Seán and I can get to work on that kitchen wall mural he’s been planning. He has been thinking about it for weeks now - he sits on the floor for long periods with a crayon in each hand, with one eye on the wall and one on his mum. I’m guessing he wants it to be a surprise. No point making a start while she’s watching.

I’m looking forward to the project, but the waiting is killing me. Not least because we’ve just had a long weekend and being art-director-on-call I couldn’t risk a single beer. Ireland may have had the wettest weekend on record/CD/DVD/Download but I certainly had the driest.

Now before anyone jumps down my throat about all the worry daddy is going through, let me point out it was all his doing. I didn’t have it in for him, so to speak.

To exacerbate things, all the lovely-baby doctors swore on their stethoscopes that Kathy would be anything up to a week early. (They obviously never arranged to meet her for lunch). Hence I’ve had my crayons in the boot of the car since the middle of last week.

I’ve had the phone on tone and vibrate at night in case I sleep through the call to arts. And it’s kept fully charged. Some meetings have been rescheduled as they are too far away. An overnight case is packed. I continually check there’s plenty of fuel in the tank.

Kathy is wondering who is actually having the baby.

Well I suppose it will all be worth it the day I get to blubber oh, (s)he’s gorgeous. It can’t be long now - I seen a rat down by the river yesterday and jayzez, it was feking huge.

With no kids of my own, I seem to have fallen into the role of surrogate uncle for some of my friends’ offspring. Birthday cards and bills for furniture damaged while babysitting come addressed to Uncle Primal. I’m proud of this. Not many parents would leave their kids in the care of a non-family member these days. Especially a male.

With each family concerned, the real uncles do the birthday present and play in the garden kind of things, but always seem to have something more pressing to do when asked to babysit for any length of time that might involve feeding or changing. They have to defrag their hard-drives or whatever. Having worked in a warehouse my experience of goods-in and goods-out qualifies me eminently and makes me the uber-uncle.

Being a surrogate uncle also results in having surrogate brothers and sisters. Mainly sisters. Dad’s tell me that my nephew or niece has learned how to use the DVD. Mums tell me the wee one has a cold and will need an array of medicines administered pre-bedtime. And which ones will be swallowed gladly and which will be sprayed back at me - The stuff I need to know.

In two months, the bestest of these sisters is having her second child. I will be an uncle again. Or maybe an aunt - They don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl. Now if kids are the funniest creatures on the planet, pregnant mums run a close second. Well this one anyway.

Cathy is one of those high flying executive types who controls an organisation of 200 employees like the rest of us use a TV remote. But at the first sign of the bump the dizziness kicks in.

Once a week or so I get a call: Hiya! Listen, I’m too embarrassed to ring himself - what’s the alarm code for our house?

One morning she rang me at 8:20: Can ya do me a big fav? I’m in the carpark at work. Seán is still in the car with me - I drove straight by the crèche and forgot to drop him off. I’ve a meeting in 15mins and can’t leave. And himself is in Paris this week. Can you come get him? Oh God, I’m a terrible mother! You won’t tell anyone will ya? Now stop that. You’re a great mum. And it’s not as if I’d blog about it now would I? Ah, thanks, Primal. You’re a pet. Oh, and while you’re at the crèche could you pop by the house - I think I left the door open.

On Saturday evening, Seán and I were sitting on the floor busily dismantling some kitchen appliance or other when I noticed Cathy was wearing sunglasses. It’s lashing rain out - where are ya going with them yokes on? Oh, they’ll be grand. They’re prescription ones. I lost my proper glasses in London last week. The proper glasses that are sitting over there on top of the telly? Oh. Eh, do you think the optician would let me cancel the new ones? Get them anyway so you have a spare pair. I’ll mind them for ya until ya need them. Monday probably.

Cathy left for her girls night out and Seán and myself rummaged about for the next appliance needing our attention. She was back two minutes later. I forgot my list. I need to get a few things on the way home. I thought you were in the shop earlier. So that’s why there’s no milk in the fridge? I was in the shop. I got everything, paid for it, got my change and walked away leaving it all on the counter. Hold on, milk wasn’t on the list. I’ll add it now. You might make that Milk of Amnesia.