How was your birthday?

I can’t remember mine.

But let me back up a little.  I am not talking here about the annual ritual of blowing out candles, surprise parties and half-wanted presents.  No, I’m thinking about the day we all got stuck into life itself; the day we parted company with our mother for the first time – our birth day.

Of course, I can’t remember mine, but I guess it’s probably better like that.  Too much change, too much to process.  Anyway, that’s a job for my parents – to keep these first memories of life in mind; to wrap them in love, edit out the really bad bits and ocassionally get out of the ‘box’ over Christmas dinner or during the ocassional wedding speech.

I am lucky enough to have five stories in my own treasure box.  Five wonderful children.  Five reasons to keep waking up each day.

So let’s get the box down from the shelf and see what’s in it.

Episode 1: December 1995
I was a priest in the Church of England in those days.  It was Christmas Eve and I was giving the address at Midnight Mass, re-telling the story of a baby born in Bethlehem.  The fact that my wife was sitting in the congregation having strong contractions certainly added a touch of realism to the ocassion.   

Waking up on Christmas Day, however, things hadn’t quite gone according to the script.  There was no present under the tree and no baby in the crib.  In fact, all I recall – having got back from the hospital after another false alarm – was being too tired to cook the Turkey and eating the ham sandwiches that, hours earlier, I had packed into my emergency hospital bag.  E.T. was on the tv and I remember crying at the end.

Four days later, though, the moment finally came.  I can still smell the fear and excitement.  I can still see myself walking down the corridor towards the maternity suite, terrified by the sounds that seemed to be coming from behind closed doors.

My wife screamed at me at one point, much later in the night.  She was extremely upset, to say the least, with the noise I was making as I unwrapped the straw of my apple juice.  ‘Don’t worry, love,’ the midwife told me kindly, ‘It’s just the gas and air speaking.’  I went outside and took 5 minutes to regroup.

I don’t remember much of the birth itself.  The hot toast and cup of tea that the nurse brought me after my son had been checked out was probably the most enjoyable meal I have ever had.

Later on, I found myself in a room with our baby - just him and me.  Everything was quiet and still.  It was at precisely this point that I realised that a trap door had opened in my heart and that I fallen deeply in love with the child before me.

Episode 2: March 1998
It’s all somewhat more predicatable second time around.  The emergency bag that they tell you to pack four weeks in advance is not so carefully packed.  There are no ham sandwiches and you realise that no one ever actually uses the recommended mineral water face spray.  I did remember, though, to pack some music – although in retrospect always wondered whether my son was in any way affected by the continuous loop of Schindler’s List OST in the hours before his birth.

Sitting in a coffee shop, somewhere in North Oxford, having a chat with my wife and enjoying a sticky bun before heading off to the hospital, I felt like an old Pro.

Still, somewhere inside, we were both living with unspoken fear of what this day would bring.  Our second child was highlighted, during a routine scan, as having signs of Down Syndrome.  We had opted not to have an amniocentesis.  So we were left in the dark.

When he was born, I remember staring at him…. and staring some more.  I was not even sure what I was looking for.  What does ‘normal’ look like in a baby?

Finally, sensing my anxiety, the nurse came over to me and put a hand on my shoulder.  ‘Stop worrying,’ she said, ‘He is fine.  He looks just like you!’.

Her last words only made me worry some more.

Episode 3: February 2001
When we start out along the road of parenthood and family life, it is probably best that we can’t predict the route along which we travel.

I remember a cold February day in London.  My two sons were with me.  I think we were off to the zoo.  Being just up the road, this was a regular day out.

There’s not much else to say really.  And I guess that’s the point.  Some stories are harder to tell.  However many times you get them out of the box and dust them down, the pieces are still a little cracked and torn at the edges.  Make no mistake, though, they are no less precious. 

You see, this was the day my daughter was born.  But the plain fact is that I wasn’t there.  I did not share those first few moments of life with her.   And I still find it hard to express what this did to me.  I still find it hard to think about what it did to her.

One day, she and I will talk about this.  We will take our treasure box to a private place, open it carefully and tell stories to one another.

Right now, though, is not the time.

Episode 4: October 2005 (double length feature)
There is always a twist at the end of a good story and having twins was nothing if not a twist!

It was my first day in a new job.  I sat down at my desk at 9am and stared at my nice new computer.

Midday and the telephone rang with half-expected news.  I was immediately jolted into a completely different kind of reality and made my way back to the hospital, on the way trying to prepare myself mentally for the fact that this afternoon my girls would be born into the world by emergency caesarean.

Looking back, most of it is now a blur.  It all happened too quickly.  There was no bag, no atmospheric music, no tea and toast.  This was life and death before my eyes. 

Lights, buzzers, monitors, a team of medical staff speaking quickly in a language that I did not quite understand. I felt so disconnected from everything that was going on.

And it continued for some time after that. 

So if you asked me when the twins were born, I would almost say that they began to be born on 18 October, 8 weeks premature, and finished being born a few weeks later when they were finally disconnected from the wires that had become their lifeline.  At least, that’s how I see things.

Five stories. Each of them a piece of treasure narrating five ways of coming into the world.  That’s just the way life is, I guess.  We have all got to start somewhere.