The rumbles started early on Friday morning. This was 10 days early, to which I took affront. We’ve been booked in for a C-section for a month, and I guess part of me rationalised that, once we had the date agreed – even written down in my Google calendar, in case I had other things going on and forgot – the baby would hold up her end of the deal. I’d like any child of mine to be punctual, so my first worry was what kind of antisocial ingrate we’d raised. The sort of early-bird weirdo who shows up to a 2pm barbecue at 1pm, and ends up drinking beers in the garden while their grumbling hosts get dressed and start preparing the food. For shame.
Soon, rumbles became a clearer, more consistent pain and it was clear that my wife was having, if not contractions, something that looked, walked and quacked like contractions. Having spent the best part of the last month saying how ready we were for the pregnancy to be over, we suddenly discovered the limits of this readiness.
