Why can’t we drop seeds on a flannel

IT is 5am. I have been up since 3.15am.

My daughter is moaning in the bedroom. Her partner is making soothing noises. My wife is doing arcane things with eucalyptus oil and the midwife is filling in her tax return.

This is becoming a habit.

I am (or was until I fired up this computer) twiddling my thumbs.

This is not a figure of speech. This is where you link the fingers of each hand together and wind your thumbs around one another, aimlessly, wondering whether to make another cup of tea and why you’re here.

It was the same last time. I twiddled my thumbs until they wanted stuff from the chemist, then they wound me up and I trundled off to the shops like a clockwork toy. They’ve thought of everything this time. I’m going to have thumbs like a wrestler’s biceps.

It gives you time to think, though.

I mean, what good is it inventing an internet fridge and space travel if you can’t order a baby at a sensible time and — even more important — in a sensible way?

I have a lot of admiration for the world we live in, but it seems like a design flaw to me.

Why couldn’t we just drop seeds onto a flannel and water it daily until we saw the head?

They’ve just seen the head. It’s 5.27am.

While I’ve been sitting here twiddling my thumbs and pondering, people have been striding purposefully about with bowls and plastic sheets.

It’s getting light outside. This is what happened last time. My granddaughter was born as the sun came up, drawn towards the light like a moth.

I haven’t seen any water. I thought there was supposed to be lots of water. I’d put the kettle on, but they’d probably laugh.

They probably just chant nowadays instead.

You have probably guessed this is a home birth. The world is full of probablys.

Everything will probably be fine. I’m not worried.

It’s the question everyone asks when they hear you’re having a home birth — “Aren’t you worried?”

I’m a grandfather, stuck out here with the computer. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to worry about!

I can hear my daughter in the bedroom, moaning. But she used to do that when she was 14 and her hair wouldn’t go right.

My other daughter has just arrived. I said hello but she wasn’t listening. They dragged her into the inner sanctum. They probably have pentangles drawn on the floor.

It’s gone very quiet. On any other day I’d be suspicious they were talking about me.

My granddaughter has just woken. I can hear her grumbling in the other bedroom. It’s 5.50am. At least she’ll be pleased to see me.

I pick her up. She stops crying. All I can hear is silence.

Have they all fallen asleep – at a time like this!

I tentatively open my daughter’s bedroom door. “Er… excuse me…”

They look up. There are six of them. My wife, midwife, daughter, pregnant daughter, pregnant daughter’s partner.

Wrong. She’s not pregnant. And the sixth one is my grandson.

No crying. No fuss. Smooth as… well, a baby’s bottom, I guess.

Real class.

It’s genetic.