Whilst on duty as a midwife, my colleagues and I would often chat about our imagined pregnancies and births. On the postnatal ward, during those rare quiet shifts whilst all the mums and babies were sleeping, we would discuss whether or not we would want an epidural, a pool birth or a home birth. Never in my future did I envision anything other than a textbook conception, gestation and birth.

The summer of 2018 is one I’ll never forget.  Britain was in the midst of the longest heatwave since the 1970’s, and I was pregnant with my first child.  It was a summer spent excitedly preparing for my son’s arrival with only a tinge of FOMO that I couldn’t join my friends drinking Pimms and revelling in this endless summer.  I sat in my garden cradling my huge nine-month bump staring at the now parched grass, imagining myself splashing in a paddling pool next summer with my one-year old son.  I couldn’t wait to be his mummy and finally have him here.  Little did I know that this would be the last normal day of my life.

Despite the chaotic nature of our son Jasper’s sudden and unexpected arrival, the time we spent with him was calm, peaceful and beautiful. When I look at the handful of pictures I have of me holding him, all I see is an expression of shock and disbelief on my face. That makes me sad, as it doesn’t reflect the beauty of the precious time we had with him.

I never know how to start my story.  You see, I’m not your typical Mummy.  I didn’t grow up playing with baby dolls dreaming of the day when I would have my own.  In fact, for a long time, I didn’t think I even wanted children.  I thought the maternal gene had skipped me, and to be honest I was OK with it. I had a good career and the idea of changing dirty nappies and being vomited on every two seconds just didn’t appeal to me.