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When our first child was due, in 1997, the date of his expected birth (though not of his actual birth) was the Second Sunday of Easter. Even though it's not his birthday, it's a day that has gained added personal significance from this fact. The day is also known as Quasimodo Sunday from the first words of the introit, "quasi modo" ("after the fashion of" or "like"):

Quasi modo geniti infantes, alleluia: rationabiles, sine dolo lac concupiscite, alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.

Like newborn babes, alleluia, desire the rational milk without guile, alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.

Or, as the King James translates it: As newborn babes, desire the sincere milk of the word.

When I mentioned the due date to my old tutor he exclaimed with delight, "Why, then you can call him Quasimodo!" It's not a suggestion we entertained seriously, but now that I've told our son about it he seems disappointed at the missed opportunity.
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Easter break

Having laid off bogging during Lent I will, perforce, be even quieter during the first weeks of the Easter season. This morning a simple piece of everyday clumsiness (involving Easter eggs, a running child, outstretched arms and a doorframe) somehow managed to split the first phalange of my little finger as close to lengthways as possible. Back from having pins put in it, my right hand (and I'm right-handed) is all in plaster but the thumb. So typing is on a need-to-type basis for the immediate future.

Signing off with a prayer that any readers out there have a blessed Easter.

Unable to resist updating to add: it was local anaesthetic, so I could hum "Praise My Soul the King of Heaven" during the procedure, while the orthopedic surgeon (as bluff and hearty as all orthopedic surgeons seem to be) was humming "Yellow Submarine".
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