A year ago, I was visiting a friend in hospital when she decided to pass me a bomb.

Okay fine, she passed me her baby. Or at least, she tried to.

But if you saw my look of horror, you would have thought it was a bomb too. My heart was racing.

'Why, don't want to carry ah? Don't be scared lah,' she remarked, after seeing the blood drain from my face.

I stared at the thing. I shook my head. I think I tried to smile, although I probably ended up making a grimace.

In my mind, I was certain that I would drop the child on her head and lose 50,000 karma points.

She couldn't persuade me to hold her.

When I related this story to another friend, a father of two, he tried to assure me that this was normal.

Men are scared to hold newborns, he said. He pointed out that he didn't dare to carry his first child for days.

It was nice of him to try and explain my fear away. But the truth is, I don't have much affinity for babies.

I'm not sure when I started feeling estranged from them because I remember being very fascinated when I was a kid. I would take any opportunity I could get to carry my cousins when I was younger.

What a difference two decades make.

Just look at how I behave at baby showers these days. Whenever I go for one, I never seek out the supposed 'star' of the show.

Instead, my priorities are (in order): the new parents, the other friends at the shower, the food and the family pet.

I don't voluntarily look at the baby unless it gets shoved in my face, because what follows is the most unbearable part of the event: the pregnant pause.

I know the parents would like me to go delirious with excitement. But I just can't.

I can't even force myself to make a pedestrian 'wah, so cute' remark if I don't think the baby is.

My aversion to babies has, unfortunately, caused me no small amount of shame at home.

I'm guilt-stricken that although I have been occupying the same home as my niece Elysia for the nine months she has been on this planet, I have largely ignored her.

It's nothing personal, as you can tell by now. In fact, as an uncle, I wish I could do better. I just didn't know how to engage her.

That is, until she recently started taking an interest in me.

The first time it happened was during lunch about three months ago.

Elysia was at the dining table as I was wolfing down my rice. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw her staring at me.

This might sound incredibly mundane, but I felt a slight thrill course through my body because Elysia had finally come alive.

Previously, when all she did was sleep and get breastfed, she was as animated as a bunch of bananas.

I glanced back at her. She smiled. I was sold.

Since then I've found myself engaging her more. Babies, I have learnt, are great listeners.

You can tell them about how hard your day at work was, explain why Roger Federer is the greatest tennis player of all time, or chide them for making a mess - and they would listen intently, like you're the greatest orator ever.

No interjections, no rebellious comebacks, no 'but Rafael Nadal has the best topspin forehand' nonsense.

We had some fun one-way conversations, and our relationship grew.

And I was content taking these baby steps until my mum forced me to make a bolder move a month later, just as she was getting ready to prepare dinner one evening.

My brother's last maid had left abruptly, leaving us short of hands at home.

'Here, carry Elysia, I need to cook,' my mum said, triggering my Look Of Horror again.

I didn't have a choice. I tried to persuade our dog to do the honours but the coward scampered off.

So Elysia went into my arms and my blood pressure shot through the roof.

Then after a minute passed and I realised she wasn't going to fall on her head, the palpitations slowly, slowly ebbed.

Hmmm. Maybe it isn't so bad, I thought, as we spent the next hour watching TV together.

Somewhere during that hour, she slapped her palm on my arm.

I looked at her. She grabbed my arm, and sank her little head into my chest.

My heart was racing again.

This article was first published in The Sunday Times.