Many writers have shared their thoughts with the public:

"There is something delicious about writing the first words of a story. You never quite know where they'll take you." - Beatrix Potter

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." - Anaïs Nin

"Sharing your writing, being enlarged by others' writing, is what makes you feel famous." - Gretchen Bernabei

"Writing is not an amusing occupation. It is a combination of ditch-digging, mountain-climbing, treadmill and childbirth." - Edna Ferber

"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing." - Ben Franklin

"One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones to form themselves into the proper pattern at the right moment." - Hart Crane

"There are three rules for writing. Unfortunately, no one can agree what they are." - W. Somerset Maugham

My Yoda's Got Blue Eyes

“My feet, they’re huge,” Anne says as she wakes up.

“Don’t worry,” I say, “They’ll be fine by this evening.”

It’s induction day, 30 April 1982, necessitated by a major dilemma. Dr Golfcourse’s holidays start on 2 May 1982, the same date as the forty weeks end.

We arrive at 9 am at St Margaret’s Maternity Hospital in Darlinghurst. It is an eight-storey red brick building showing its age. The site has functioned as a maternity hospital since 1894. I wonder if there is a nearby paternity hospital, in case I need one.

Anne has come to give birth in the same place where she was born in 1955. A bit like returning salmon.

Staff greet us and escort Anne to her room. They ask her, “How are you going?”

“I’m struggling, you …”

I interrupt, “She has had a really rough time with swollen legs.”

While Anne is settling in, I find a café and buy the Sydney Morning Herald, a car magazine, a sandwich, a muffin, a muesli bar, some mints and a cup of coffee. Even though it is one of their big sellers, I baulk at having the C-section salad. I imagine what must co-exist with the anchovies. I stretch and settle in for one big day.

The afternoon is relatively uneventful. Only three cups of coffee and a sizeable pasta meal, topped off with chocolate mousse. I am concerned that the café is closing at 4 pm, so, I buy some extra provisions.

I wonder how long Dr Golfcourse will be? He is a small, roundish man. A gruff disposition is his handicap. He turns up at 9 pm. As it is a Friday night, I am hoping he hasn’t come from the nineteenth hole. I get close and personal to check his breath, but all is well.

It’s 10 pm in the birthing room. I try to sooth Anne down, “The Tigers thrashed the Bunnies today.”

“Can’t you see I’m in pain, you idiot.”

“Well,” I say to myself, ‘It’s name calling time now, is it?” This is when I remember all about the risk assessment I undertook before coming to hospital and the main lessons I learnt – keep up the food and hydration; and don’t get in close enough for a head butt. Let me explain about the latter.

A friend recalls a time when he was at the birth of his child. He sat by the side of his wife, cooling down her forehead, and asked, “Are you OK dear?”

His wife grabbed him by both shirt lapels and at the same time suffered a major contraction. Her reflexes yanked his torso, nose first, onto the extra hard bit on her forehead. After that he can’t recall, but the nurse later told him, “You immediately stood up with blood splattered over your face, your eyes circled twice in their sockets, you wobbled on your heels twice and then fell straight backwards with arms outstretched, knocking aside a chair in the descent.”

His wife was aghast, not because my friend had been poleaxed, but because the nurse and doctor rushed to my friend, rather than attend to her. The doctor, apparently, had to check if the poor fella wasn’t dead. If so, it probably would have been the first time in recorded human history that a husband had died in child birth. A perfect case example for a paternity hospital.

It’s 10.15 pm. I think about the breathing classes that we attended together. The instructor said, “Breathe in slowly and breathe out slowly.” I remember Anne following instructions to the letter. She kept practising the breathing technique. Fat lot of good it was. Up to now, I’ve lost count of how many epidural top-ups Anne has requested.

It’s 10.30 pm. The birthing room is bland. Anne is on a contraption and white sheets are everywhere. I am in my risk-assessed position well behind the reach of Anne’s head. The doctor is next to a large, metal cabinet with a plethora of tools. It’s something like a person will find in a men’s shed, but for some reason I can’t spot a chain saw. Surely, a lightweight one must be beneficial in the case of triplets.

Caddie the nurse is helping. She is petit. It’s best if I don’t describe the colour of her hair, but it rhymes with beyond. There is a lot of emergency equipment for her to control, including oxygen. The gruff one calls for a large tool. I think for a moment he says, “A six iron.” I don’t know what it is, but it will be great for salad tongs.

There is a flurry of activity. Dr Golfcourse is all concentration. Soon he delivers a – I’m not sure what the gender is, as we didn’t want to know. I’m busting to find out. I wait a few seconds. I say to Caddie, “It’s a?”

“It’s a..., oh, I’ve jammed the top of my pinky finger against the cabinet.”

She re-starts. “It’s a...”

“It’s a?”

“It’s a... disaster. I only had my cuticles done yesterday.”

I stare at Caddie as she surveys her hand. I’m about to say something frightening when she says, “Oh, it’s a girl.”

First impressions reveal this one is a determined little product. She must have become very fond of her home of nine months as she didn’t want to budge. I also notice that her fists are clenched.

The baby girl is placed on Anne who says a long “Uuuuuh” sound as she moves her head and neck backwards. I don’t think I will ever forget the sound. I’ve never heard a sound like that again and I don’t think I ever will.

I walk out the exit door, with Caddie in front. I see her finger. “That’s looks sore. I’m sorry if I seemed anxious back there.”

“That’s OK. No problem.”

“The doctor is grumpy, isn’t he?"

“He’s a big marshmallow inside. And you want to have him around when things go wrong. You have a lovely baby daughter and I wish you and your wife all the very best.”

“Thank you very much. I hope your finger recovers quickly. By the way, have you ever delivered triplets...?”

The birth didn’t hurt me a bit. I survive without a scratch. But I’m not too sure about Anne. She looks as though she has been monstered by a Mack truck and has bruises all over.

Eventually, I am able to hold the newly born child. Our daughter. Her eyes are blue. I can’t believe how small she is, how the wrinkles in her lips are already there and how tiny but perfectly formed her fingernails are. Her hair is light and wispy, with a tinge of redness, assumed to be due to the Irish heritage. I count the fingers and toes. All are OK. I receive a gift. We receive a gift. Pain transforms into joy.

I feel extraordinary lucky to have a child. At the same time, though, some not so confidant thoughts come floating into my head on the daunting task of nurturing this child. I think that I don’t have a clue what to do when we take the baby home. I’m sure that Anne will know what to do, won’t she? It suddenly strikes me how useless a male is in this situation.

The mops and buckets come wheeling in, preparing the room for the next client. It dawns on me that this place is similar to a sausage factory – it’s continuous production that keeps the place going.

About an hour later, our little darling is in a crib. Anne laughs and says, “She looks a bit like Yoda from Star Wars, without the green colouring.” I think Anne might have had too much oxygen, but I decide to go to the crib to take a look. Our darling is wrapped in a shawl and has her fingers next to her ears. She has some wrinkles on her forehead, some wispy hair and the shape of her head tapers towards the top.

I say, “I can’t believe it. It’s amazing, she does look a bit like Yoda.” Anne smiles at me. I think that our darling’s looks are obviously not from my side of the family.

Around midnight, mother and daughter are settled. Anne says, “Take care on the way home.”

I need to catch a train and pick up the Toyota at Hornsby station, which is over thirty kilometres away. I leave to go home for some sleep. One big day it was.

On the way home, I remember not being able to stop singing Elton John’s My Baby’s Got Blue Eyes. But I actually sing My Yoda’s Got Blue Eyes. I’ve recently checked and Elton John’s song was internationally released in March 1982. That fits well.

I come in early the next day. All is fine. During the day, lots of relatives come including Anne’s mum Nicola and dad Don. It is their first grandchild. Nicola had her five children at St Margarets, so it would be hard to know what she is thinking. I wonder if salmon grandmothers help their offspring. Apparently, salmon are really into home water births. They know the advantages are less painful contractions and less likelihood of needing epidurals. But in their case, the other options don’t stack up too well.

The visits and rests continue for six days. Anne’s four brothers, ranging from about fifteen to twenty-four years-of-age, come and begin their cricketing analogies such as, “How’s that, she’s out,” and “Glad she wasn’t dropped at first slip.” They congratulate each other on becoming uncles. Uncle Paul immediately becomes the favourite uncle – his birthday is the same as our little Yoda.

On the evening of the sixth day, staff at the hospital look after our Yoda and allow us to escape for a few hours. We are close to many eateries around Oxford Street in the city and we set off about 6 pm. Anne tires very quickly, though, and says, “Can we just go to the closest place?”

What is the closest? Yes, it is the four yellow bananas, commonly known as McDonalds. Anne only has a few French fries and a cup of tea, while I devour the rest of her French fries, a big mac, a cheeseburger, an apple pie, a chocolate sundae and a cup of tea. Not what we envisaged, but at least it is nice to escape for a while. Now back to reality.

After a week in hospital for a relatively standard birth, unheard of these days, we depart. We strap our Yoda into her new safety cradle that is in the back seat of the Toyota. On the way home from the hospital, Anne says, “I need to check everything is OK.”

So, I find a place to stop while an inspection is carried out on the little bundle in the back. We stop forty-three times on a forty-kilometre journey. We arrive home. Two has become three – we are now a family.

PS (six weeks later in 1982) – We decide to christen her Yodess.

PS (recently) – Kidding.

PS (even more recent than recently) – Not.