If I'd be in a position of having to defend the conversation.
Now that the original pumpkin is five, and seems to have assumed the moniker of "monkey" more than any other, then perhaps I can make a determination. An executive decision, then, that this can be a story for two people, about two people.
That when I call you, pumpkin, "pumpkin", that I'm talking to you, nestled tight inside my beloved, and that it's got nothing whatsoever to do with the other pumpkin, who used to be pumpkin but isn't anymore because he's monkey. Look, I know, this is getting confusing, and you're only a tiny batch of cells right now, but perhaps, as with your brother, if I explain it in terms of Batman, you'll understand. It's like Batman Beyond, you know, where Bruce Wayne realises that he's too old to be Batman anymore and hangs up his batsuit and then...
Ok maybe I'm overthinking this.
All I'm saying is, pumpkin (2) (the pumpkening), is that it's a delight to be told of your existence, and that I'm terribly excited that you're coming, and that I can't wait to meet you. That you're going to be loved and cherished and welcomed and snuggled and raspberried. That you're going to have an older brother called Bram, and a cousin called Sam (and another who's about to arrive, I'll let you know as soon as I know). That I'm already 100% certain what your name is, although I'm pretty sure I'll have to fight tooth and nail for it. That you have, waiting (although they don't know it yet) a huge gaggle of aunts, grandmothers, uncles, grandfathers, great versions thereof, step, half, once removed etc etc etc (you get the picture).
Love you,
Dad.
