The hospital bag nobody packs for you

You will be told, repeatedly and at length, what she needs. Nobody will mention that you might be in a hot building with no chairs for forty hours.

Pack your own bag. Keep it separate from hers, because at 2am you will not be rummaging through her things looking for your phone charger.

The kit that actually matters

• A long charging cable. Two metres minimum. Sockets in maternity wards are never near the chair.
• A power bank, charged. You are the photographer, the timekeeper and the person who tells everyone the news.
• Real food. Ward vending machines are a lottery and hospital cafés close. Nuts, flapjacks, anything that survives being sat on.
• A refillable water bottle. You will forget to drink for nine hours and then wonder why you feel terrible.
• Loose change or a parking app set up in advance. Sort this before you leave the house.
• A jumper. Wards swing from tropical to freezing with no warning.
• Deodorant and a toothbrush. Day two exists.
• Headphones. For the waiting, of which there is a great deal.

The things that make you useful

• A printed copy of the birth preferences. Phones die and midwives change shift. You are the continuity.
• The notes app on your phone, ready. Times of contractions, names of staff, what was said. Nobody else is recording this and it matters later.
• Her hairband, her lip balm, her flip-flops for the shower. Small, forgettable, disproportionately appreciated.

What to leave

Work laptops. The optimism that you will get any sleep. Any plan with a fixed timeline.

One thing worth knowing

You may be sent home. Early labour can take a day or more and many hospitals will send you both away to wait it out. This is normal and not a rejection. Eat a proper meal while you can.

Pack the bag at thirty-six weeks. Put it by the door. The one thing you cannot pack is being calm, and it turns out you are steadier when you are not looking for a charger.