I realise that now I have a grandchild on the way, I should really be lying in bed in my cottage, waiting to be eaten by a wolf and rescued by a woodcutter. However, I am a fan of the James Thurber version of Little Red Riding Hood, and will be teaching any future granddaughter accordingly.
With that attitude in mind, I chatted to my son and daughter-in-law yesterday about the progress of the pregnancy. All is well and they are going to visit a delivery suite tomorrow to see how things are done in Vietnam, where they are living.
Advice for the Future
It seemed to me that I should be offering some sort of benefit of my life experience to the youngsters. The books they are reading are all about the pregnancy and the delivery, and actually, those things are short-lived. There are some pieces of very straightforward advice which will save an awful lot of mess on many occasions.
For example, we discussed the range of nappy technology around and the realisation that all those disposable ones are congregating in the lakes and oceans of the world 
and making the futures of their small wearers quite questionable. Should they buy cloth? Or disposable? Or do the Vietnamese have an alternative, clever idea?
In the end, I decided they needed to know one thing: grab hold of both ankles and do not let go until the whole operation is over. One small baby can spread golden-brown waste products liberally over the equivalent of five football pitches within thirty seconds. And remember to have a spare cloth available, as boys can easily wee in your face.
Tales from Poo Corner.
Young, innocent new parents always assume, too, that the nappy will contain the contents. Not so, I warned my son. If this child inherits his father’s genes, he will be able to fill a nappy so hard and fast that the poo bounces off the bottom and shoots up to his armpits. The baby will need a complete change of clothes and, quite probably, so will the doting person who was cuddling it at the time fo the explosion.
Firstborn and his wife were crying with laughter as I related this anecdote. I hope they will remember it when they need it. 
For five years, they should not wear anything that can’t be thrown into the washing machine, steam-cleaned or sand-blasted. All jewellery must be able to resist small fists and teeth. Hair should be short or capable of being tied back out of the way of tiny fingers with their sticky tangles. And shoulders will be permanently covered in dribble.
As we giggled together about the prospect of such mess, we all knew that I , like most new grandmas, would be eager to risk whatever mess is involved in spending as much time as possible with the new arrival, when it is safely delivered.