Tuesday afternoon my life changed forever when at 16.56 little Fraser Edmund joined the Folland clan.
It was an emergency c-section. One moment my wife was in a bed and I'd been told to 'go and get the bags' out of the car; the next moment, I'm back with the bags and the room is full of people in blue/green scrubs uniforms and my wife's in a hospital gown and in a blur of activity a nurse grabs me and says that it's all about to happen and I need to get changed into scrubs and grabs me grabs the bags, rushes me down a corridor, points me to a cupboard and tells me to get changed and join them in theatre... If that sentence lacks punctuation, so did the moment itself. It just flowed. No. Rushed from one blurry verb to another.
In amongst all the action and overwhelming 'trying to remain calm for your wife when clearly this is terrifying for her' experience... I did manage to discover that I look good in scrubs. No really. A student mid wife even said in theatre, 'is dad in here yet?'.. when I was just standing 3 feet away from her. See? I looked like a doctor! Well, that's my memory. The scrub nurse will probably tell a different tale involving me being so nervous that I put the trousers on back to front so didn't see the tie up cord, so wandered down the corridor with them falling down and my pants showing and said nurse coming to tie me up (honestly! If I can't dress myself, what hope do I have?!)