Can you remember what you were doing? Chances are, you can’t. But I surely can.
Because I was panicking.
Panicking about my wife, who had spent the last week in hospital, thirty-odd weeks pregnant and with waters that had already burst. Y’know, when that normally happens, birth happens right after, but not in this case.
Panicking about my daughter, as that very day I’d pulled her out of daycare at Sydney University. I couldn’t keep up with the hectic schedule of – Drive to station at 7am; train to central; bus to Sydney Uni; drop her at daycare; bus back to Town Hall; walk fifteen minutes to work. Repeat in reverse at 4:30pm, having worked straight through with no lunch break so that I could leave work on time. Bear in mind, she was two years old at the time. And I had no idea what she was going to do come Monday, except that I’d probably have to annoy work further by not coming in.
Not unsurprisingly, with all this panic, my work itself wasn’t going so well. So that was, naturally enough, more reason to panic. I went to bed that night a mess of nerves, unsure of what the future held.
But then — three years ago exactly, at 5:56am for those who like counting — James Keir McIvor Roberts Kidman entered this world. A little early, decidedly little in weight terms, and a little on the blue side — and like his older sister, he spent some serious time on oxygen just to keep him alive — but solidly there. And I thank God he’s been “there” ever since.
Happy Birthday, James!