There was a strange man in a leather jacket at the back of the room when I gave birth to my second child.
I think about it a lot.
I mean, it's fine, I guess. Dignity and privacy are strangers to you by the time you find yourself mostly naked in front of strangers, pushing out a human.
Watch: Questions about childbirth, answered. Post continues below.
But every now and then, when I picture the day my little boy turned up, I see the view from my bed: My knees, up, a little mucky baby on my chest, midwives on either side, a doctor-y person.
And this guy, towards the back of the room, in a black leather jacket and dark hair, with his arms crossed. Just staring.
It's funny how distance from birth changes your view of it. My kids are officially "big" now - eleven and eight - and those desperately emotional, frightening, butterfly-exciting days of baby-baking and birthing are really far behind me.
But I pick them out of my memories every so often, and hold them in my hands, to remember how it felt, making people.
It's hard to talk about birth without drawing fire.
Each one is so different, but with the same key elements - mother, child, mess - and the stakes are so ridiculously high, it's impossible for every individual lived experience not to not to be tainted by comparison, fear, resentment, judgement.
As long as everyone makes it out of there okay, we say, that's all that matters.
And of course, in the big picture, that's absolutely true. And yet, birth experiences matter a great deal, research tells us, when it comes to how things unfold in those first days, weeks, months of a child's life.