'Samuel Joseph Benjamin Royce was born at 7.30pm on Thursday 6th September 2007. He weighs 9Ibz 1oz. His mum was amazing. His dad is just amazed'.
That was my first text to family and friend the day Sammy arrived. Four hours earlier I had been sitting in an edit suite in Soho putting the finishing touches on a new campaign and joking about how he would never turn up today, on the very day he was due. Hardly any babies do apparently. I can believe that. All the dates surrounding labour seeemed to be intelligent guesses rather than being based on any exact science.
But come he did and in just four hours. I will never forget turning up to queen Charlotte's hospital in West London after one of those 'race against time' chases you always see at the end of Richard Curtis films, to find Jo already in a delivery room chewing the end off the gas and air pipe.
The labour was a bit of blur for me - Lucozade, wiping her head with a warm towel, Ribena, water, saying 'push' a lot, forgetting everything I learnt in NCT, realising that a back massage was never really going to cut it against contractions that had her doubling up in pain. We had two mid-wives, one, Rachel from the natural birth centre where we were meant to be and one - can't remember her name, from the more medically orientated birthing ward where we were now as they had spotted some discolouring when Jo's water's broke which can be a sign that the baby is in distress.
They were great, or at least Rachel was. The other girl was 'training'. I've always found that intriguing about hospitals - 'you don't mind if X stays here do you? She's training. What are you meant to say when you're thinking 'Yes I fucking well do, can't she gain 'valuable experience by examining someone else's screaming wife's fanny' - but don't want to upset anyone.
To be fair she was OK but I could tell Jo didn't really like her being there.
I couldn't believe how quick the actual birth happpened. Rachel had sent for the pediatrician and his boss and when Sam made his entrance there were 6 of us there, the two mid-wives, a doctor and his assistant, the pediatrician and me.
There is always lots of discussion about whether' daddy wants to be down the business end' when it all happens. As if!! Jo and I love each other but we don't buy how that be rewarding in any way apart from not wanting to have sex again for a very long time.
When he arrived, I cried. It's a strange sensation, something I can only describe as a mixture of elation an relief. Relief mainly, that my wife was no longer in pain and grunting like something from the Exorcist, that Sam seemed to have all his fingers, toes (and the rest), that nine months of often anxious build up had finally come to an end.
But that relief suddenly turned to mild panic as he was whisked away from us and given oxygen on the far side of the room. At NCT we had been told about the skin on skin time that mum and baby would be encouraged to have almot immediately, maybe even putting the new baby straight to the breast. Clearly this wasn't going to happen.
We know now that he had fluid on his lungs, possibly from swallowing some maconium - baby poo - on his way out. He was gasping and rasping for breath and needed help. Half an hour he was taken to intensive care for them to keep an eye on him over night. Strangely as nobody else seemed to be very stressed about it, neither was I but it was an odd sensation to be left in the room, just the two of us, emotionally drained and with no baby.
But at least he was here and in good hands and that was the main thing.
