In a daydream, you imagine what it would be like to experience a birth, inspired by the arrival of a new baby girl to one of your good friends

This is a story I wrote a while ago - reproduced here in celebration of Neve's 4th (4th!) birthday today.

You are woken at 3am by your wife, who is experiencing tightenings, quickenings, contractions. This is not unusual: she has woken you every night for the last week with her sufferings. Even though the routine is familiar, it is exhilarating each time. You fall back to sleep. You awake again after an indeterminate period of time (in sleep, all periods of time are indeterminate). Your fecund wife is still awake, still experiencing pain. This time, you cannot resume slumber. You talk to her, quiz her of the pains. After an hour in bed like this, you switch on the bedside light to retrieve a digital watch. You time the contractions (yes – you are now referring to them as contractions). They last one minute, and are 10 minutes apart. You hug each other excitedly, then walk down the stairs together to phone the delivery suite.
‘Hello, Maternity ward.’
Speaking in a deliberately measured tone (to give the impression of calm, of control):
‘Hello. My name is {name}. My wife is one day past her due date, and we think that she is in the early stages of labour. We are registered for a home birth. Her contractions are one minute long, and 10 minutes apart…’
Your wife, sat next to an alarm clock, corrects you:
‘Now 6 minutes apart.’
‘…sorry, six minutes apart.’
‘OK, would you like us to send out a midwife now?’
Losing your cool a little, you fumble your words, ask your wife, and then pass the phone on to her. She makes the necessary arrangements, displaying the exact amount of confidence that you tried, then failed to pretend.
You walk to the utility room and attach a hose to the tap. You will use this hose to fill the inflated pool that you already have set up in your dining-room. Of course, before you go, you explain to your wife where you are going, and seek their approval. As the morning progresses, there will be much of this explanation/approval pattern (I’m just going to the toilet, will you be OK?).
You expect a period of the two of you sitting, waiting, talking. Instead, you hear a tentative door-tap almost immediately (it felt like immediately – how long could it have been? Minutes?). Standing at the door is a perfect midwife. She smiles, reassures, enters the room and begins to set out her stall.
By the time the second midwife arrives, a remarkable calm has fallen over the house - your house. Your wife is not writhing in pain, as you had expected, but instead, is sat on the couch, concentrating on breathing, leaning her head back into a cushion. Each time she does this, you catch the midwives eye, check the clock perched next to her, raise your eyebrows, and then remember your duty and comfort her by lightly touching her hand, leg, or head. The contractions are becoming more painful, and closer together. The midwife examines your wife, and declares her to be three centimetres. With your rudimentary knowledge of labour, you understand from this that you are in for a wait.
A word here about how utterly, utterly useless you are. You Are Useless. The midwives find small jobs for you, which you do gratefully. There is the hand-holding that we mentioned. Oh, and you made a playlist for her on your music player, so you add soothing music to the room. But really, you are no help at all. Get used to this feeling.
At around 7 in the morning, the pain is changing – things are progressing faster than you expected. The pool is uncovered, and your wife gets in the water. It is beginning to get light outside (and here is where you become aware that this must be a daydream, or some such fantasy), through the window you see three inches of snow have fallen, blanketing your garden. You both stare out of the window, as ‘Cool Waves’ by Spiritualized begins. It is too perfect.
The birth? Grunting, screaming, writhing agony for around 5 minutes, and then a head is visible beneath the water. A perfect head, covered in dark hair. A final push, and the baby is free. Deftly, the midwives scoop up this new life, and as they do, you and your wife synchronise:
‘It’s a girl!’
…and she is placed on your wife’s chest. She is purple, and covered in a white goo, and yet she looks more beautiful than anything in the world.

In the daydream, we now skip to one week after the event. You stand in your kitchen over a pan of milk, and try to evaluate how you feel, to remember all the emotions that have passed over you. It’s difficult to put your finger on it.
With the continuous stream of well-wishers, and the extra work involved in having a baby, there is very little time to reflect. But now, as you stand over the stove, it occurs to you: ‘I feel taller.’ Physically taller. You grin as you feel yourself looming over this miniature oven, and standing tall, you breathe in deeply, then exhale.