Not a spectator sport

We have been waiting for our special delivery, and finally at 1.30 am today it arrived. Rock HQ is a fantastic place to live, with this as our back yard any child would love it here so we are very happy that the plan has finally come together and Tracey and I, already proud parents of two grown up successful ex rug rats now have a new ankle biter to introduce to the delights of smallholding.

The last 48 hours have convinced me beyond measure that child birth is not a spectator sport but ultimately that the stress, fear and worry is all worthwhile when you get to hold your new born for the first time.
I could tell you a tale of poor communication, of lost medical notes, not being listened too, lost property and being moved around the hospital, in one door and out the other like in a Warner Brothers Cartoon. I could mention being packed in a room like battery hens with a gang of foul mouthed 16 year olds all wanting to give birth to their third child while talking to Fanta and Chardonnay, their two daughters, and yelling that they should be good for grandma Kylie otherwise Keannu (presumably mummys new partner, whoever it was, he had ADHD, which was why he was phoning and haranguing the already overstretched midwives) would sort them out. But I wont mention it.

Because just when I thought the NHS could not get any worse they totally redeemed themselves by putting Tracey and I in a delivery suite with a colour TV. This meant Tracey could give birth whilst at the same time watch England stuff France at Twickenham in the 6 nations. Unfortunately this diversion did nothing to ease our little smallholders presence into the world and by 1 am today after over 24 hours of labour, Tracey lost the will to push and our would be offspring was losing the will to live. Here the NHS came into its own and within minutes of this fact being established by an excellent midwife called Sally, Tracey and I were inside an operating theatre (where I was told not to touch anything blue or green, well they might as well have given me a large button marked "do not press") We were put underneath a large blue sheet while a supremely efficient and expert medical team ensured that our child's bid to join us was ultimately successful. Hearing the cry was a relief, to actually see him was unbelievable, for it is a he, we did not know until Sally held him in front of us before taking him to be cleaned and checked. I could not help but cast a glance backward at this point where I was treated to the unnerving sight of various blue clad theatre staff clutching internal organs of my beautiful and oh so patient wife, and, while they were up to their elbows in blood trying to fit her back together, she was chatting happily about our son, now named Tristan.

His second name is Paul, because as stated previously on the pages of these tales the world needs more Pauls. Today has passed in a bit of a blur, and I must thank all those out there who have sent us so many blessings, good wishes and good lucks, and thanks to all those that visited and tried to, and thanks to Jill who is now a Grandma running the smallholding for us while Tracey and I come to terms with how lucky we are.