This memory still haunts me. When our first was born, our son who is now seven, he wasn't breathing. He was blue and motionless. Meconium had got into his lungs. The nurse took us over to this table where she worked on him. He was new and unknown to me and I loved him. She told me to tickle his feet because "they don't like that." She sucked stuff out of his mouth with a bulb. It looked brutal. The alarm kept going off. Every 30 seconds? Three minutes? I don't know. I was trying to help save the baby. I stroked his soles. "Come on buddy. Come on," I said. It was terrifying and literary, I recognized that. But in those situations you don't ponder, you just try to endure and perform.

He's seven now, fine and energetic, intelligent and caring, with an empathetic heart.

Giving the difficulty of our son's birth, you can imagine the joy and relief when our daughter came out of her mother, took a deep breath, and immediately let out a strong cry.