My wife was fortunately given a separate room to recover from her c-section that was nicer than most budget hotels, we even had a lovely red chord we could pull for room service, although I don't think they liked me calling it that.
I became a breast milkman, ferrying some of the good stuff my wife had expressed over to Zac in the morning. First thing I did was get stuck in the revolving door and nearly poured it all over some posh guy's tweed jacket.
"What's that stain on your Cheviot Harris, Sebastian?"
"Just a bit of nork brew, Margaret, nothing to worry about..."
Once I got outside I held that boob juice receptacle like it had anthrax in. This stuff was going to help my son recover.
It wasn't nice seeing Zac with the nasal tube and drip attached to his head but he seemed pretty content with life and gave me one of those '20th Century Fox Lion' yawns that babies have got nailed.
I then made the drive back to the Women's just in time to see Ben given an electronic tag on his ankle to stop anyone stealing him. He looked like the worlds youngest A.S.B.O. about to go on a colostrom-fuelled nappie stealing rampage. I was so proud.
The day shot past in a blur, speaking to doctors and midwives about tests and procedures. I don't know about you but there's only so much medical info I can take on board before my brain stops digesting it, kind of like when you ask for directions in a foreign town, it just becomes noise.
One thing I did understand was that Ben had jaundice which wasn't that much of a surprise - he was four weeks premature and looked as yellow as a Coldplay hit single. So they stuck him under this phototherapy lamp and it was time for my milk round again.
Apparently Zac had taken his feeds like he was on an infant version of Man Vs Food. This was wonderful but the big question now was whether he'd digest it properly. We were basically told to 'pray for poo', which is a part of Sunday School I must have missed.
Most fathers tend to go out and celebrate but as my wife had a private room they let me stay in the Women's Hospital on a fold up bed. So I smuggled some cheap, warm wine and a plastic camping beaker in and drank it in the pitch dark like a dirty squatter. I know what you're thinking, this guy knows how to throw a party. And you're right, if that party is an incredibly desperate one.
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