10 years later I'd be laughing about the day, the dawn, where, white-faced in a room with blood up the walls, I would hand our new raw blinking baby to my boyfriend in order to frantically find, in my Notes app, the document I had grandly named Birth Plan.
It's funny, it is funny, how I scoured it I want a mobile epidural, I want gentle guidance rather as opposed to being forced to push this plan, written as if ticking off boxes on a dim sum menu, written in the voice of the person I was before.
My experience of giving birth was almost comically pedestrian. It reminded me of the time I got my ears pierced, I must have been about 12, going home on the bus looking at other women's earrings and thinking, OK, you've felt that same agony.
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