I know my entire birth story, and it’s fascinating, but I’ll try to summarize:
My mother wanted to have a home-birth, so she contacted a midwife. When the contractions started, the midwife came over, checked her, said it would be quite a while, and took off to run errands. Labor progressed until my mom knew she was getting close to transition, so she called the midwife back. The midwife got stuck in traffic and my dad had to deliver me. Mom likes to remind me that I made her miss I Love Lucy that day.
She started hemorrhaging and had to go to the ER. The ER claimed I was contaminated from home-birth and wanted to quarantine me for two weeks, but my parents were having none of that, so they let me go home with a friend of a friend who had a baby and was still nursing. She kept me for two days, I think, until my mom was able to go home.
Mom calls me with this story every year on my birthday, and she sometimes tells it like it’s happening right now. The phone calls start the night before when “she is feeling the first little twinges.” The next day, I get several more like, “I know I’m really in labor now, but we’re just hanging out playing Skip-Bo” and “Your daddy and Jane are picking up lunch, but I’m not really hungry at this point,” until she finally calls and tells me, “This time, 33 (or whatever) years ago, I’m starting to push but the midwife still isn’t here, so your daddy has to keep me calm and help me deliver you…”
Other people might get tired of hearing it, but I think it’s neat that she does that every year.