My daughter was born almost four weeks early. Although her arrival was unexpected, she wasn’t worryingly prem. I had a nine-hour textbook labour, vaginal delivery and no medical intervention. The baby was a bit under-cooked (2.5kg, hairy shoulders) but her APGAR scores were great – hello, perfect lovely offspring!
So I got stitched up, had a shower, and was dismissed from the birthing suite. My husband and I wheeled our new tiny person up the hallway to room 514 – I got the bed near the window, sweet! – and we sat down together on the scratchy waffle weave blanket, overwhelmed and overjoyed.
And this is where my memory gets a bit fuzzy. I suppose we were probably staring at the baby, touching her soft cheeks or rearranging her hat or something. Maybe we were discussing names – we hadn’t picked one yet – or just saying things like “Whoa, we have a baby!” and smiling deliriously at each other.