A nudge in the ribs at 4am on May 24 heralded the onset of my involvement in the whole labour process, although apparently Mrs A had been suffering from contractions for a couple of hours before deciding to wake me, and then suggest I go back to sleep in case nothing happened for a while.
Like that was going to happen.
So showered and shaved by six, the car packed with various bags and breakfast served, the waiting game began. Hours passed... I'd told work things had kicked off, expecting to be at the hospital by lunchtime, but it eventually became obvious that this initial stage in the birthing process wasn't a sprint, it was a marathon. Cue various time-consuming activities over the course of the day, ranging from long walks in the blazing sunshine (yes, it seems incredible now in the midst of all this rain, but just a few weeks ago we were basking in glorious summer sun) to catching up on episodes from various box sets we'd been working through, while all the time the contractions increased in frequency and intensity...
Although I'm a reasonably patient man, I'd had enough by mid-afternoon, and we convinced ourselves that we should probably head to the hospital "just in case", but probably more to feel as though we were actually doing something constructive. So up the M1 we headed to Luton and Dunstable Hospital, only to be turned around and sent back home after a brief chat with a midwife because things were by no means ready.
It was going to be a long day.
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