My friend Sarah writes about some pretty compelling stuff, such as seeing the pope and the visceral truth about mucus plugs. I totally missed it, but a year ago today she gave birth to her second child on her bathroom floor, with only her (able) husband to help.
I ring the husband. He’s waiting for a bus. Instantly I am Miss Calm again and gently suggest that perhaps a taxi might be better advised. He gets in at 9.45pm. At 9.55 I’m back on the loo holding on to him, starting to panic and suggesting that he should a) call the hospital back really quickly and b) maybe we should forget about homebirth and get an ambulance ‘cos the pain was already killing me.
Everyone turns out okay in the end. Excepting, perhaps, some bath towels.