The Boy did grumble rather than cry but as he had uttered not a sound up to that point and several ashen faced doctors were gathered round him, we were pleased at any sound frankly. It was boiling hot, much like today, and A had smuggled in an electric fan which he kindly aimed at whichever bit was the sweatiest. Oh the romance. But finally I remember glancing at the clock at the exact moment that the Boy grumbled croakily and it was 8.47 and we had a son and he was fine.
Now he is eighteen and taller than me. He calls me ‘Micro Mum’ and when I try to remind him of stuff or tell him off he laughs at me. Happy Birthday Boy.