When I qualified as a midwife back in 1993, I was only the second man in Leicestershire to do it. Mostly, that meant I spent my first few months trying to look useful and failing. In 1993-94, the caesarean birth rate in England was exactly 15.0%.
By the time I sat down to write the first edition of Men, Love & Birth in 2015, that number had climbed to 27.1%.
I'm currently looking at the NHS England Maternity Statistics for 2024-25. The figure is 45.1%.
Just let that sink in for a minute. The rate has roughly tripled over my career. This year, for the first time, caesarean births outnumbered spontaneous vaginal births. It's now the most common way a baby is born in this country.
I'm not telling you this to start a debate about modern obstetrics. I'm bringing it up because of what it means for you.
For decades, antenatal classes have treated blokes like a spare part. The unspoken assumption has always been that if birth goes to theatre, the medical team takes over and the man in the room just needs to stay quiet and sit in the corner. But if almost half of all babies are born by caesarean, you can't afford to be a spare part. You need a job.
A surgical theatre is a brilliant, life-saving place. It's bright. It's cold. It's full of people in scrubs doing highly technical work, often chatting about what they watched on the telly last night while they do it. And in the middle of all this is your partner, lying flat, wide awake, having major abdominal surgery.
If you just sit by her head hoping not to get in the way, you're leaving her alone in a crowd.
She can't see over the drape. She's relying entirely on the sensory input she gets from the space right around her head. If you're holding your breath, she feels it. If your voice is tight with panic, her body registers threat, her adrenaline climbs, and the experience tips from a birth into a procedure.
You're the only piece of normal in that room. When you lean in close, keep your voice low, and tell her exactly what's happening in a calm, flat, reassuring tone, you're actively protecting her nervous system. That's a clinical intervention. You're keeping the oxytocin flowing, even in a room full of surgeons.
I've just finished updating the book for the 2026 edition, and I had to rewrite the section on caesarean birth from scratch to reflect this new reality. Because 45.1% means you have to be ready for it, not just hoping it doesn't happen.
I want you to have that chapter. Get in touch and I'll send it over.
Have a read. And for god's sake, if you do end up in theatre, sit down if you feel lightheaded. The midwives have enough paperwork to do without you cracking your head open on a monitor.