Picture in your mind a hospital room.
It's not a standard issue hospital room with white walls, and an easily disinfected linoleum floor where thin curtains are suspended from the ceiling to give the infirm the illusion of privacy. No. This is a deluxe hospital room. No industrial-looking chrome bedsteads. No vinyl upholstered visitor's chair affixed with a brass plaque announcing that a civic group donated it in such-and-such a year to honour Mr so-and-so who is long dead and mostly forgotten save for this piece of dated furniture. This hospital room is more like a luxury suite in a trendy hotel.
Propped up in the queen-sized bed, amidst Egyptian cotton sheets and 17 pillows, sits a woman. Her hair -- usually well-coiffed -- is messy and could use a good wash and a brush. Her face -- usually well-made-up -- is freshly scrubbed. Her weariness is palatable and yet she exudes happiness.
The door opens and a nurse comes in pushing a bassinet. He wheels the baby over to the mother's side and helps her settle the boy for his next feeding. The nurse picks up some hospital paperwork from the bedside table. He dims the birthing suite's lights to enhance the restorative atmosphere of the room. Then quickly and quietly he leaves, shutting the door as he goes.
Alone with her child, the mother says. "I love you, baby. I am going to be the best mother I can be. Because I want to bring you up properly. I want you to become a strong independent man. I want you to be creative. Maybe you'll follow in my footsteps and become a singer. You might want to take up guitar and write songs. Illegal drugs might make you more creative (or so you will allege) and give you an edginess that will become the hallmark of your carefully nurtured media persona. Perhaps you will find fame unfulfilling, sweet child of mine. This emptiness may be mirrored in your personal life, which will be occasionally marred by violence. Also you may be fond of guns. And lawsuits. Your mental health issues may remain untreated. As your fame wanes you might opt for some bad plastic surgery. Or maybe not. All the same, I know that your namesake, Axl Rose, will be an excellent role model, Axl Jack Duhamel."
And with that Fergie picks up the remote and turns on the large screen television on the wall opposite her bed. "Now, lets see what's new with the Kardashians."
Meanwhile, the nurse (who has been listening all this time with his ear pressed to the door of the hospital room turns and walks down the hall to the nurses' station. He unfolds the documents he collected from Fergie's bedside table. It's the child's birth certificate. He stares at it for a long moment. Then grabs a pen from the desk. It takes less than 20 seconds to amend the form. Axl Jack becomes "Alex Joshua."
"You're welcome, little buddy." he says, seals the forms in an envelope and drops them in the interoffice mail slot.