Asked what the topic of this week’s post was likely to be, very few of you would probably have opted for ‘microwaves’…and you would, to be honest, have been right. However, microwaves do make a cameo appearance later, so be sure to watch out for them.

This past week has been dominated by one event: the build-up to, the moment of, and the ripple effect triggered by, the arrival of our newest grandson, who Raphael is calling ‘Zazu’ (which is the rough equivalent of ‘Jiggly’, and is the name the nuclear family gave him in utero, because of his activity there). The rest of us will have to wait until the brit to discover what his name will be, going forward.

When Maayan’s contractions started last Tuesday, Bernice and I picked up our pre-packed overnight bag and drove up to stay in the flat with Raphael. Without going into too much detail, let me just say that the labour was a protracted affair, and Maayan and the baby did not have a very easy time. The first time Esther took her to the hospital on Tuesday at midnight, Maayan was not quite sufficiently dilated to be admitted. They decided to return home, and, after a very long and hard Wednesday for Maayan (and Esther, and, no doubt, the baby), they eventually went back to hospital on Wednesday evening. After a long night and day of further complications, and only after the senior doctor managed to flip the baby to be face down, was he born, on Thursday evening, with Maayan heroically summoning the last of her strength to help him on his way.

I have to say that, for the long day between their return from the hospital for the first time and their return to the hospital, I felt more surplus to requirements than I can ever remember feeling. I consider myself well qualified to state that there is a difference between a biological man and a biological woman, and at no time is that difference more obvious, more undeniable, than at the end of a pregnancy. I am, I know, not the first man to observe that, if men carried babies and went through labour, there would be far more one-child families, and far more childless families, than there are. In childbirth, women are Amazons and men are wimps.

At least, this man is. I know that there has been a huge cultural revolution in the West since my child-not-bearing days, and I know that there are fathers-to-be and fathers who are unimaginably hands-on, but, when push comes to shove, there’s only one gender doing the pushing and the shoving. There I was, in a flat where the mother-to-be was on all fours, the two other women both had first-hand experience of the pain and exhaustion she was going through, and all I could do was stack the dishwasher. It was a chastening experience.

Frustratingly, in attempting to describe how this whole experience could not have been less about me, I seem to have made it sound as though it was all about me. It was, of course, actually all about everyone else, and, especially, ultimately and supremely all about the baby who eventually emerged in all his glory, to make everything instantly worthwhile. I know that’s easy for me to say, but there is, within the family, unanimity on this.

There is something about the warmth, the stillness, the delicacy, the trust, the aroma, the softness, the continuing dependence, the immediate independence, the infinite potential of a newborn child that makes holding him in your arms one of the most special experiences life can offer. Every time it is just as special, if only because every child is a unique and complete new world.

So, we are now blessed with two opening batsmen and two opening bowlers. Make of that what you will.

Raphael was, as always, a champion throughout the week. He actually chose the day his parents were in the hospital to run a slight temperature and feel rotten. On Thursday, he went off happily to gan, and seemed fine when we collected him in the afternoon and took him to the park, but when he took only one bite from his ice-cream before handing it over to be saved for later, and then said he wanted to go home rather than play in the park, it was obvious that he was coming down with something.

Once home, he put himself to bed and slept for 13 hours, only waking a few times for a drink. Fortunately, when he did wake he seemed to have slept off whatever it had been, and his temperature was normal. He woke, of course, to the news that he was now, finally, a big brother, a role that I suspect he will relish and excel at.

Executive decisions were duly made, and all three of us set off for the hospital after breakfast on Friday. Raphael knew that he had to keep his distance from the baby, in whom he displayed less interest than I had expected. Of course, newborns don’t come with much in the way of bells and whistles, and, at the age of three, your ability to see the potential adult in the newborn child is not very developed, so his lack of interest was, I suppose, very understandable.

Bernice and I, on the other hand, got our generous quota of cuddles, until, all too soon, we had to head back for Maale Adumim, still needing to make some preparations for Shabbat. Meanwhile, Raphael and baby’s other grandparents were on their way to take Raphael home with them for a Shabbat that, I believe, included the safari, and, no doubt, other treats.

Once home, Bernice needed to defrost the salmon steaks she planned to cook for Shabbat. When I realised she planned to ‘defrost’ them by using the cooking function of the microwave, I pointed out that the microwave had multiple functions, including rapid defrost. Bernice protested that this was all much too complicated. I then pointed out that, printed along the top rim of the oven opening, and therefore visible whenever the door is opened, is a ridiculously simple set of instructions for the various functions. Five minutes later, the salmon was defrosted and ready to cook.

During the previous couple of days, I had discovered that, similarly, Esther only uses one function of her multi-function microwave. So, this week’s takeaway seems to be: If you want to use a microwave to melt butter, or defrost a chicken, or sensor cook a potato, or, indeed, heat up a takeaway, you’re better off being a man. If, on the other hand, you want to give birth to a perfect baby, you’re better off being a woman. I’ll leave it to you to decide which of these two is the more challenging. I’m just very pleased that I got to cuddle the delectable grandson and to eat the delicious salmon, both on the same day.

How blessed am I!