Doctor said eight thirty one, but you didn’t. Admitted on nine two, waited for seven, but we left as we were a three.
Rested for forty eight, then four ticked past. Contractions every three, for fifty or more. Hospital at five, but only a four. So we waited.
Two, six. Four, seven. Eight, nine and a half. Push, breathe, push, for thirty five; then, there you were.
Our baby boy.
Skin to skin for golden sixty. Then off to a bath and the rest of your life.
Only eight point one and twenty for a blink, but forever our first.