Back in the dark ages, when we were having our first child, I had to write to the hospital requesting permission to be at my own child's birth. I was reminded of this because it was mentioned in one of the old letters I've been ploughing through in the last few days. With the other four sprogs (as someone called them) there was no permission slip required; it had by that time become expected that the father would be at the birth(s). (Sorry about the 'expected' pun there - didn't see it till after I'd written it.)
I don't ever remember wearing scrubs at any of these births, but I dare say I did. Certain less than important details of my past life seem to have vanished beyond recall. The scrubs element came to mind when reading this paragraph from Charlie Brooker's post in The Guardian earlier this year, when he attended his first child's birth.
Labour takes ages. In the end, after hours of not-much-happening, there was a moment of drama. The entire cast of Holby City quickly filled the room and I found myself changing into a set of scrubs, in the toilet, in tears. I also held on to a sink for support. By the time I came out the crisis had passed, and my wife was smiling. We then had a further four hours of waiting, during which we both slept, after which the doctors decided to perform a caesarean.
I don't know what kind of scrubs either Charlie or I wore, but I see somewhere else on the Net that I've been recommended to find Cherokee scrubs for men. I presume Cherokee scrubs are not intended only for Native Americans - in the advertising I see a white bloke wearing them, and an Asian. Not a Red Indian in sight, now that I think about it.