Harry's first hours

Harry Oliver Powell was born at 3.16am on the 1st June - an easy birthday to remember! The birth was a wonderful thing - all I'd hoped for and more - but also not for the faint hearted. Michele had "torn" while giving birth, and there was a lot of blood. And I was just about to add to it... I'd always had a fantasy about cutting the chord, and when we first entered the delivery room (now, seemingly an eternity ago) Nikki asked if I wanted to do that.

So it was, with eyes still swimming in tears, I was handed a vicious looking pair of scissors - no, not scissors, more like pruning tongs. A plastic clip was put round the cord near Harry, and I was given the chord to cut.

I've been told that it's tough, almost gristly... and they were right! Armed with a suicidally sharp implement though, I cut through in one go. Blood spurted out of Harry's end, then decreased to a trickle. Thinking about it in the cold light of day, I just committed an act of assault. It's flesh that is connected to both Harry and Michele - so does that make it a double assault?? Better not think about that one too much.

Anyway, with the help of an injection to get things going, Michele's end soon emerged - the placenta. I won't go into much detail, but it was the size of a saucepan and the consistency of liver. I had a little "prod" of it before it was taken away; we had decided ages ago not to do anything with the placenta, like eat it or keep it wrapped up for a while. No - straight to the incinerator with it, bye bye.

Newly freed from his mother, Harry was placed in a position where he could get his first taste of breast milk (Michele had decided she wanted to give it a go). Nikki showed her how to hold Harry, and off he went. While he was being held by his mum, I got out the mobile phone and took loads of pictures, as I had promised to do beforehand. In my excitement I sent a picture to everyone I knew with a camera phone.

Before I go any further, if you go back and look at the pictures of Michele, me and Harry just after the birth, you'll see a bunch of towels stuffed inside my shirt. Just before the birth, Nikki had handed me some towels and asked me to not only keep them warm, but put my scent on them somehow. The baby would get to know his mother's smell very quickly, and it would help the bonding process if I could do the same. So, I spent the last half hour with these NHS towels next to my chest.

When Harry came out and had been cut free, he was placed on a weighing table and vented his first scream (those tables are cold...). He came out at a very respectable 8 pounds 6 ounces. After that, he was tagged around the ankles and I was then taught how to swaddle a baby. I wrapped Harry up in the warm towels, hoping that they didn't smell too sweaty.

When finished, he looked something like this...



Cute isn't he? :-)

I mentioned earlier that Michele had "torn" during birth. If you don't know what that means, I'm not going to explain it. Suffice to say there was a lot of blood on the bed and floor. The bottom half of the bed was unhooked and Michele, who still had her legs in the stirrups, now had two male doctors between her legs, sewing up her "torn bits" - a perfect time for her to reacquaint herself with the Entinox! Oh, and this was the point where the doctors told us that the bed Michele was lying on cost over £8000. That's one expensive bed...

A bit later we broke hospital rules by using our mobiles to phone our families to tell them the happy news, and soon after, Nikki took Michele away to have a welcome bath. That left just me and Harry together, and I took the time to hold him close - what Americans call "Quality Time".

Sitting there in the delivery room with the morning light streaming in behind me, I looked down at the small, shrivelled baby wrapped in blankets. His head was still slightly elongated after coming through the birth canal, and his ears were pointed like an elf's which, along with his frown, made him look more like a wizened old man than a new baby.

It was a fantastic moment when our eyes met and a sort of unspoken understanding passed between us. We both knew we were connected to the other in a special way. While holding Harry close I honestly felt a happiness and serenity unlike anything I've ever felt before.

When Michele and Nikki entered the room with tea and toast, Nikki took one look at me holding Harry and said "I see someone's in love..."

She wasn't wrong there.

The Longest Day - Part Three

Quite a while ago I bought a cheap MP3 player and later had the idea of making a compilation of Michele's favourite music, classical and modern, for her to listen to during labour. Making it was fun but it turns out that it wasn't used much - only during idle moments in the early stages of labour.

Something else that was different to what we expected was the labour pains. Instead of feeling contractions in her abdominal area, Michele felt her pains in her back, around the area of the kidneys. The reason for this would become clear as the night went on but for now it remained a mystery.

Having spent the day in that room on Level 11, we had unpacked our bag and spread our things around - just as you would in a hotel. Now that we knew someone was on their way to take us up to Level 13, I rushed about, making sure everything we brought went with us.

With bag packed and ready we waited, I sat on the edge of the bed, half looking at the darkened view, half watching Michele as she paced the room - her waddling steps punctuated by contractions that almost bent her double. The only thing I can think of, from a man's perspective, that might have been similar is chronic constipation. And that's not pleasant...

At 9.50pm, a young midwife dressed in "blues" walked through the door with a wheelchair. She introduced herself as Nikki and asked if we were ready to go. As Michele arranged herself into the wheelchair and was taken from the room, I cast one last look out the window - the next time I saw daylight I could be a father...

We took the lift to Level 13 and entered a delivery room with a west-facing view. It was dark outside and dimly lit inside, projecting a calming atmosphere.
















We unpacked our stuff and Michele eased herself onto the bed (an expensive one as it turns out). I plonked the bag down in the corner and tucked the car seat under the chair. I was asked if I wanted anything and minutes later Nikki returned with a tray of refreshments, including a steaming hot pot of strong coffee.

Because Michele might have to go on a drip, she was told not to drink caffeine, which left it all for me. Three cups later and I was buzzing, ready for anything.

At ante-natal classes, we'd discussed methods of pain control - Entinox ("Gas and Air"), epidural, TENS machines etc. - but we'd not really planned for anything specific. Michele decided she would go with the flow and see how she got on.

Before we really got into the swing of things, Michele had an ultrasound scan to check the foetal position. Michele was to be hooked up to a baby monitor as she had been downstairs, but Nikki had trouble finding the heartbeat. The U/S scan was done by a Oriental Doctor (more of whom we would see later on) and showed that the baby was still fine, but at an odd angle. Turned out that the baby's spine was parallel to Michele's, which might cause extra pain during delivery.

After several "internal examinations", we were left to it for the moment. Michele's contractions were coming on hard and fast now, and she was making friends with the Entinox. It was basically a complex-looking mouthpiece joined to the cylinder and everytime she breathed through it she sounded like Darth Vader or a deep sea diver. Nikki was soon back and, after a brief chat with Michele it was decided that we would go for a natural birth, with just Entinox to relieve the pain (for now).

The next hour or so had Michele getting into her contractions which began to get very uncomfortable and difficult to watch. She was putting her breathing exercises into practice, but coupled with the mouthpiece, she sounded like she was groaning in pain through a muffled microphone. And as the pain increased, the more she used the Entinox, and the more she became as high as a kite.

It was weird - one moment she was writhing around on the bed in agony then, when the contraction passed and I was there sponging ice-cold water onto her brow and neck, she was looking around dazed and confused. When Nikki asked if she was ok she replied "I feel pissed!" and smiled drearily at me. Her eyes were heavy and she blinked slowly, smacking her dry lips. I was on hand with a paper cup of cold water which she drank through a straw - a straw which I positioned in her mouth.

Things were getting surreal as the hours wore on and I slowly passed through the barriers of tiredness then over-tiredness, catching my "second wind". Contractions were still coming thick and fast and, at 11.10pm, Michele's waters were artificially burst.

Standing there watching Michele writhe in agony was something I wasn't fully prepared for, and it shocked me to see a loved one in such pain. I knew it had to happen - I had seen plenty of "births" on TV where they scream their lungs out, but this was different. This was my Michele.

Something occurred to me during that time - my child could be born soon, and would have the 31st May as a birthday. Part of me was hoping that he/she would hang on for a few more hours - the 1st June just sounded easier to say and remember!

Nikki the midwife was with Michele all throughout, on hand with words of encouragement. Michele was turned this way and that through different positions - first on her back, then on her front grasping the front of the bed (which had been raised), then on her back again. Because the baby had his/her spine parallel to Michele's, it was causing extra stress but some light relief came when Michele, on all fours, let out a belter of a burp. Better out than in...

At 1.10am, Nikki suddenly told us that Michele was fully dilated, which for some reason was surprisingly soon. Michele's legs were hooked up into stirrups either side of the bottom of the bed now. It seemed that we were on the home stretch...

As she pushed and pushed, something dark and hairy appeared - the baby's head! I went "down there" to get a good look and was dumbstruck to see wavy black hair, matted to the top of the head with blood and fluids, but there nevertheless. I was convinced that I was going to cry when the baby was born, but I wasn't moved at all when I saw the top of the head - just curious, and mildy spaced out.

Talking of which, Michele was on another planet now, thanks to the effects of the Entinox. She smiled drunkenly at me with heavy eyes that had given up trying to focus.

"Do you want to feel the head?" Nikki asked Michele. "No!" came the slurred answer.

"Come on, push! I don't want anyone else in here!" said Nikki time and again. She was determined to help Michele deliver naturally, but was on a losing streak. It was just gone 3.00am and exhaustion was starting to kick in. Michele was pushing as hard as she could, but the head wasn't coming out any further.

Resigning herself to the fact that it would be an assisted birth, Nikki left to get help. As she did, I looked at my Michele lying there in pain, and choked back a tear. She was doing so well but had become so tired. I was incredibly proud of her and, as I stroked her hair, felt a great love for her.

The male doctors that we had seen before came in, and filled the room with machines and crash trolleys - just in case. As they were preparing to set things up for a Ventous (basically a suction cap to pull the baby out), there was a surprise - Michele had suddenly found another ounce of strength and had started pushing again.

Suddenly the head appeared. It was pointing downwards and looked misshapen, but it was there. Our baby's head!

I remember where everyone was for the next part; I was standing to Michele's left, Nikki and a doctor were helping the head to come out at the bottom of the bed, the other midwife and doctor were to Michele's right. Behind me, the first feeble lights of a new day were beginning to creep into the room.

"Go on!!" shouted Nikki.

Michele pushed.

A baby was born.

It just... appeared there. One second I saw the head, the next, the whole body was out, drooping feebly. Nikki and the doctors immediately checked the baby out.

"Is it alright..?" Michele gasped. "What is it?"

I looked and caught sight of genitals. The words I had practised saying in my mind a thousand times burst out for real; "It's a boy!"

The tiny body was handed to me and I placed him gently on Michele's stomach. As I did so, I softly said "Hello Harry"... and was completely overcome. I cried without sobbing, looking at our baby son, my vision blurred with warm, salty tears. He was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and pride and love like nothing I've ever felt before filled me to bursting. I gave Michele a grateful kiss. She was emotional as well and, despite her extreme exhaustion, wore a warm glow in her cheeks as she smiled at me and her child. She had done it.

I looked at the tiny body of this brand new innocent life, still connected to the inside of Michele, and tried to come to terms with what had just happened. In an instant, my entire world had been turned upside down. Somehow I remembered to ask a midwife if she would take some pictures. What she captured will tell you more about how we felt at that moment than any amount of words I could write...

The Longest Day - Part Two

I went to University to get a degree in Physics. I went on to get a Postgraduate Diploma in Radiation Physics. I learnt all sorts of weird and wonderful stuff, most of it forgotten within months, but nowhere do I remember learning that time runs slower in hospitals. It must have something to do with that fact that you're more aware of time passing. Every. Single. Minute of it.

So it was that most of the day passed by uneventfully, with me taking some photos of the easterly view over Brighton Marina, and Michele lying there watching daytime television. From time to time, Anna came in to check the traces from the machine.

The baby continued to pump out a good strong heartbeat, but there were very few contractions. Several times, Michele was advised to get up and have a walk about, so we walked around the the level, passing other rooms and wards where other women were having babies. There was a drinks machine near our room so I could keep us both supplied with tea and chocolate, and Michele also had some lunch when the NHS dinner ladies came round. I can't remember if they offered me anything, but I'd guess not as I wasn't the patient.

Anna had explained what was to happen that day. First, the Prostaglandin pessary would be inserted, then Michele would be monitored for contractions. If nothing had happened by about 6pm, there would be a second pessary inserted. If that didn't get things going, Michele would be hooked up to a drip of Oxytocin (another hormone). And, if after that, the waters still hadn't broken, she would have a procedure called an ARM - Artificially Ruptured Membrane - which would entail a long hook being inserted to physically burst the amniotic sack.

I hope you weren't eating while you read that last paragraph...

Well, we paced the room but nothing happened until, at roughly 6pm, Anna came in to put in the second pessary. I went to leave but was told that it was up to Michele , and this time I stayed. I did turn the other way though.

Time passed as the world darkened outside our window, and still the baby showed no signs of leaving it's comfy home... until, sometime between 8.30 and 8.45pm (I couldn't be sure of the exact time as I was watching Big Brother) , Michele thought that her waters had broken. I called the midwife to our room to check things out - it was a different lady as Anna had finished her shift - but she thought it was only a "hind break" - when the amniotic sack bursts slightly right up inside instead of near the cervix. Only a small amount of fluid would get through because of the pressure.

Finally, within the next hour, the pessaries started to have an effect, and Michele was up and about pacing the floor of the room like a caged animal, groaning with discomfort. The contractions, albeit small ones, had started. One minute Michele was ok, the next she was leaning against the window sill gritting her teeth and moaning as things started moving.

I, as husband and birth partner, could only stand about awkwardly and keep out of her way. During the respites between contractions, I put my own ante-natal training into use - giving Michele massages and saying reassuring things to help ease her.

The contractions came faster and the groans became louder. Michele stopped smiling and wore an almost constant look of discomfort, unlike anything she had experienced before (which, to be fair, she hadn't). I stayed out of her way one moment, then comforted her the next.

Around this time, Michele had a small "show" - a small smattering of blood - signalling that things were taking a turn for the more serious, and usually preceded the waters breaking. Level 12, the delivery suite, were phoned and someone was on their way to take us up.

Any sense of fun had gone as I watched Michele hop about groaning and after over ten hours of waiting around, things were definately moving. The outside world vanished as all I could think about and concentrate on were in the here and now - my wife in distress.



And it would get a lot, lot worse before it got better.

The Longest Day - Part One

In cases where the baby is late, the birth sometimes has to be "induced", which is artificially kick-starting the chemical processes which get the early stages of labour going. As the due date came and went without any signs of movement down below, it seemed like induction would be the only option.

When the midwife last came round to see Michele, she discussed induction and it was decided that an appointment should be made. If we needed it, at least we'd have a slot; if something happened sooner, then all well and good.

For some reason, we had thought that we were to go in "next Thursday", which was the 1st June. Our actual appointment was on Tuesday 30th May. Ooops. Despite the misunderstanding, it all worked out in the end.

On the 30th, I decided that I wanted the next day off as annual leave before we went in to have the baby induced. Saying my goodbyes, I went home that evening and flicked idly through Michele's notes. When we saw the appointment date, we exchanged a look of "Oh bugger" and Michele immediately phoned Level 11. They were very understanding, and booked us in for 11.00 am the next day. Luckily, I had decided to take the right day off!

That night was spent making sure our bag was packed and that we had everything we'd need. It wasn't just a case of taking toothpaste and a spare nightie, oh no. We had to pack nappies and clothes for the baby, various toiletries and a whole range of "support" items - electric fans, sponges and the like, all of which would be used. You see, as I had learned in the ante-natal class, I wasn't just there to lend emotional support. As the "birth partner", I had my duties, which included keeping Michele cool, hydrated, and as relaxed as possible.

I wasn't just going along for the ride - I'd have my work to do too.

That night was a strange one for both of us. We had been caught off guard with the change of appointment, and it was now suddenly very real and scary - we were going to hospital to have a baby - tomorrow!! We let our families know what was happening, and both agreed not to contact them again until we had some news. I thought it a bad idea for Michele to contact anyone when labour began - I was there for her and it would only mean other family members waiting around. No, we'd phone them when it was all over, either way.

Yes, I say either way because that small nagging voice in the back of my head returned - "What if it goes wrong...?" - and I had a specific worry. I am epileptic, the first in my family to have this condition, and I was afraid that I'd pass it on to my child. It would be heartbreaking if my little baby had fits, knowing that I had probably been responsible. Michele and I talked about this, and agreed that although the chances of it happening were very small, if the baby did have epilepsy, it wouldn't be my fault and - most importantly - we wouldn't love it any less.

After reassuring each other that everything would be ok and, if it wasn't, we would be there for each other, we gradually fell asleep. Michele has always been able to fall asleep within minutes of hitting the pillow; I always took much longer, and tonight was no different.

Taking no chances, several alarm clocks ensured we were awake and up in good time. When packed and ready, we called a taxi. I decided to leave the buggy at home for now, as we lived so close it would be easy for me to pop home and get it when the time came. I did take the car seat with me, just in case.

Michele was understandably nervous and I could feel her anxiety as the taxi wound it's way through the streets to the hospital. Outside, people carried on their lives as normal, totally unware that we were about to go through a life-changing experience.

We arrived at the hospital's Accident and Emergency department and paid the driver. Hauling the bag from the boot, I cast one last wistful look at the outside world before heading into the hospital with Michele. This had all been so different to how we had imagined it. There was no sudden breaking of waters (something the Michele became so paranoid about that she refused to go to any supermarkets in case it happened), no sudden waking in the night to find Michele having the pains of early labour. It had all been so... organised. Almost like a routine appointment.

We found the lift and made our way to Level 11. Approaching the front desk of the ward, we got our first pleasant surprise.

Working in a hospital can be like being part of a huge family, especially if you work in clinical areas. Nurses swap wards and jobs as they progress through their careers to a point where they know, or have worked with, a lot of people. And so it was nice to see a young midwife smiling at us as we entered the ward.

"I thought it was you on the phone!" she said, as she saw Michele. "Let's get you straight into a private room". The midwife, Anna, had done some of her nurse training on the ward where Michele worked, and remembered her well. She had obviously decided to change jobs from nursing into midwifery, a change in direction which wasn't uncommon. Michele had the choice of being attended by Anna or a male midwife who was also on duty. She chose Anna.

We were shown into an east-facing room, complete with en-suite toilet and shower. Michele got comfy on the bed while being hooked up to a machine that monitors the foetal heartbeat and contractions (via abdominal surface tension).

Things were left like this for half an hour, to make sure the baby was happy. Then, at 11.45am, Anna ushered me out of the room - she was going to administer the Prostaglandin pessary that would hopefully trigger the chemical processes to make the cervix soften, thus allowing the contractions to begin.















The game was on.

Everything changes...

As I write this, the time is 7.40pm on July 7th 2006. That means it's over six weeks since the Due Date.

Did we have a baby in the end?

If so, was it a boy or a girl? What did it weigh? When was it born? And who won the sweepstake?

All in good time, although if you've read from the top down chances are you'll already know some of the above. For now, let's keep it a surprise.

When I was in Blackpool this year for a Magic Convention, a friend suggested that I make a diary as I went along, to keep track of the experiences of parenthood, so I started to write this blog. Starting at the very beginning meant there was a lot of back story about the actual pregnancy to cover before I got to the main event.

And finally, I'm there. The day I'll never forget for as long as I live, a day that would take numerous entries to do it justice.

The day my first child was born.

The best things are worth waiting for

And so the weekend passed baby-less and I was back to work on Monday morning, much to my workmate's surprise and chagrin (there was a sweepstake, remember). Michele and I kept reassuring ourselves with the knowledge that most first babies were late. In fact, our midwife had told us that most first babies are, on average, 8 days late. Not that knowing this helped much, but we kept saying "Well, we knew it would probably be late..." while casting reproving looks at Michele's swollen belly.

Talking of which, it's amazing how saying something innocent at the wrong time can cause offence. Michele was big, there was no doubt, but the number of times someone we knew commented "Oooh, you are big!" was amazing and, at first, funny. Michele knew she was big with her baby, but didn't want to be told that she was big. This was best summed up when, one day in the hospital shop, one of the staff said "I saw your wife the other day, she isn't half looking big!", to which another lady added, quietly, "Don't tell her that though...."

Because I like to be as prepared as I can, I suggested that Michele and I have a talk about what to do if things went... well, wrong. I like to think of myself as a fairly happy, optimistic fella, but there was no doubt that something could go wrong on the day and we could end up being consoled instead of congratulated. It was always someone else's problem before but now, being nearly parents ourselves, it was a very real possibility. Luckily for me, Michele is also a happy, optimistic person but also has a (fairly) sensible head on her shoulders, and agreed to talk about it.

Just considering something as awful as stillbirth was actually quite upsetting, given that we had seen our baby grow into a little peson inside Michele. I used to work with someone who had a framed picture of a baby on his desk. When I asked after the baby, I was told that he had been stillborn and, although my work colleague had had other children since then, he still kept that picture as a tribute to his little boy's memory. I remember feeling very sad, not knowing what it feels like to lose a child like that, and hoping that I'd never know.

I'm a firm believer in organ donation, and Michele and I discussed the implications of this. We decided that if the worst happened, we would give permission for organ donation, taking a little comfort in knowing that our baby bravely helped another little boy or girl live. It was a sad thing to talk about but I was glad when we both agreed on this. With this subject out of the way, we could concentrate on all of the positive and exciting aspects of the birth.

Like names.

I'm constantly surprised at how some parents get in a tizz about naming their baby, leaving it till the last moment. I mean, come on folks, you've only had nine whole months to talk about this! I know that's probably harsh of me, but it's almost like those people who wait for ages at a bus stop, only to pull out their purse just as the bus pulls up. Why not get the money out earlier, and stop me getting angry as I wait for you to count out your pennies...??

Grrr. Sorry about that, went off-topic there for a bit.

Names.

We both decided that we wouldn't inflict a "trendy" name on our child. "Apple Turnover Powell" or "Dingbat Zoobrush Powell" just didn't seem to fit. No, we'd need a more conventional name, but nothing too boring. It only just began to strike me what a monumentous decision this was, as what we named our baby would help to shape their character as well as affect how others perceived them.

We finally settled for Thomas Oliver for a boy and Emily Alice for a girl. As far as we knew, there were no Thomas', Olivers, Emilys or Alices in the immediate family so they would be "fresh" names. I was also aware that the boy's initials would be T.O.P, so he would always be "top"! I thought it was funny. "Eap" for a girl didn't have as much meaning but as least could be pronounced as a word, unlike my names - Mark Nicholas Powell.

We stuck with these until about two weeks before the due date, when I suddenly said "What about Harry?" to Michele. "Umm, I like that" came the reply and that was that. TOP became HOP.

Truth is, we had names from Day One - the day we found out we were expecting. Befitting his/her stage of development, we christened our baby "Blob" at first. After seeing the first ultrasound scan, we could not longer call it a blob, so had to think again. As Michele was showing know, the second name came easily - "Bump". And so it remained until the final scan, when we saw much more detail - jaw line, spine, nose, feet, fingers. We were now looking at a little human, and so "Bump" became "Little One", the last pre-birth name.

Which brings me nicely full circle, to the birth.

D-Day

Now the ante-natal classes and the scans were over, we could concentrate on preparing for Delivery-Day, May 20th.

The rooms were re-arranged, the bits and bobs were bought (even the buggy) and we were left waiting (im)patiently for the birth.

But first, back to that buggy. I never knew that shopping for one thing would be so difficult, but this proved to be a mammoth task. The more we thought about it, the more criteria we came up with, namely...

1) Cheap - Didn't seem worth spending a fortune on something we wouldn't be using for very long.

2) Portable - Whatever it was, it shouldn't weigh a tonne. We had to use Public Transport so would have to cart the buggy on and off numerous buses over time. It'd be no use buying a tank of a buggy.

3) Easy to use - Sounds obvious, but we saw buggies that had fancy one-handed folded mechanisms. Easier said than done, judging by our feeble attempts!

4) Car seat included - Although we don't have a car, the baby could be transported in a car sometime, and we'd need, by law, a car seat. In fact, we were told by the Hospital that we weren't allowed to leave with the baby unless we had a car seat (I think they're assuming we'd drive or get a taxi home)

5) Four/six wheel, not three wheel - Looking at the three-wheelers, we decided that they looked more like fashion accessories than good, functional buggies. The wheels were huge, complete with inner-tyres (i.e. susceptible to puncture...) and would be brilliant for traversing the moors of Devon or Cornwall, but maybe a bit too much for the streets of Brighton. Also, we'd never fit one on a bus without taking up too much space, earning the sorts of disapproving looks we'd seen before.

In short, what we needed was a "travel system" (a sort of all-in-one buggy), and we concentrated on looking for one of those. First, we started at the local Mothercare, where there was a very reasonable system for sale which included a change bag, rain cover and other bits and bobs (that we probably didn't need).

We checked out various websites and I drove my workmates mad by continually asking if they could recommend a good buggy. We even went to a huge shop in Haywards Heath where an entire floor was devoted to just buggies. After "umming" and "ahhing" over things, we looked at one another, thought a collective "sod this for a game of soldiers" and left. Well, Michele bought some blankets, just so it wasn't seen as a wasted trip.

Thanks to luck, fate, or some trick of irony, we ended up going back to the local Mothercare and buying the very first travel system we saw. As Americans say, go figure.

The girls there put it together for us (not that I'm incapable, just that they assured us it wouldn't be any bother) and I ended up wheeling an empty buggy to a nearby taxi rank. It was the first time I had pushed a buggy, and it was a weird feeling....

As the time approached, Michele went on Maternity leave from work, and received lots of lovely presents and cards from her workmates. She started this on May 1st, reckoning that she had about three weeks before Junior made an appearance.

As the weeks went by, my work colleagues could sense me getting edgier by the minute, and made special allowances. I was due to spend the day in another hospital working on their x-ray machines with one of my colleagues, but she suggested that I didn't come, just in case the baby came early. A very nice thought, and one that was greatly appreciated.

I had set up several sweepstakes for when the baby was born, the sex (as we still didn't know), the weight, and date/ time of arrival. There's always someone who puts a late date in there, and I was hoping against hope that he wouldn't win, as that would mean a late baby.

It finally came round to the 20th May, a Saturday, and my workmates had all wished me well on the Friday, thinking they would not see me for another three weeks (I had booked two weeks paternity leave, one week of annual leave). I was expecting something to happen at night; you know, that scenario when the wife wakes the husband up in the small hours and breathlessly says "Honey, I think it's coming!". Nothing like that happened on Friday night, and Saturday morning came just as uneventfully.

What do you do when you're waiting for something like this to happen? Play scrabble? Have a cuppa? Talk about world politics? I couldn't remember Dr Stoppard saying anything about the actual waiting in her book. We sat there in the lounge twiddling our thumbs, exchanging the occasional nervous glance, trying not to ask aloud what was screaming in our heads - where was this baby, then?

By the evening, we decided to stuff it all and go out for a meal (the "last supper", I called it) and we went to a local place we often eat at. It was fairly quiet for a Saturday, and we sat in the back section, enjoying the change of location and the fact that we were doing something "normal" that "normal" people do, "normal" meaning "not due to drop a sprog at any moment". I very unselfishly gave up watching that night's Dr Who so we could have an early meal. It was the least I could do.

You can't ignore a pregnant woman's bump. It's too obvious (unlike, say, an ingrowing toenail) and people will react to it, mostly nicely. Throughout the later stages of pregnancy, especially, people had given way to Michele, allowing her to go first through doorways, giving her the best seats on the bus etc. - the milk of human kindness in action. Whatever the reaction, you just can't help noticing a pregnant bump and, if appropriate, commenting on it.

"So when are you due?" asked the waiter as we finished our meal and paid using those new portable credit card reader things.

"Oh, today", answered Michele.

The waiter took a step back. "Oh, really?" he nervously asked.

We assured him we were ok and he went on to tell us about how he was "a little bit late" himself. It was all very pleasant and we had a lovely meal, but I bet that waiter's wages that he was standing there thinking to himself, "Please don't let this lady's waters break on my shift...!!"

The rest of the evening went quietly, with Michele having a bath to relax herself.

As we settled down to sleep, we both sighed inside - the due date, which we had concentrated on and worked towards, had come and gone with no sign of the baby.....