IN the midst of all the hospital dramas we've lived through in the past 15 years of parenthood, my wife has been the one who has held it all together.

And, believe me, there have been plenty of hospital dramas: from our little girl needing emergency surgery for a twisted intestine as a baby; to the operation to remove a piece of glass from our third-born's foot; to the disastrous sledging accident that led to the eldest breaking a leg; and the unforgettable time the youngest got his you-know-what trapped in his foldaway Thomas The Tank Engine train track.

It's all happened because it just does when you have kids. And while I've been flapping, thinking the worst, and generally worrying for England, Mum's the one who's been a beacon of calm: keeping it in perspective, getting things sorted, and saying everything would be all right.

But the shoe, or rather the slipper (we'll come to that later), was on the other foot when Mum was at the centre of a hospital drama all of her own.

I was out working and she was making the kids' tea when acute stomach pains struck. It became so bad that she could barely speak.

Christopher, our eldest, desperately tried to reach me on my mobile but I had it switched off. He tried to call his auntie but she couldn't be contacted either.

No doubt panicking inside, but cool on the outside, he took full control of the situation: ringing for an ambulance, calming the other children down, telling everyone she'd be all right and comforting her as best he could.

"Is there anything else I can do?" he asked.

"Slippers," Mum whispered through her agony, pointing to the corner of the wardrobe where I'd hidden a new pair of slippers she was due to get for Christmas.

Or to be more accurate, the slippers she'd given to me to give to her for Christmas.

While a kind neighbour came in to look after the younger ones, Christopher then went with her to hospital, keeping his arm round her and reassuring her all the way.

Eventually, around 9pm, I switched my phone back on and he managed to get through to me, sparking a mad dash to the hospital which took an hour but seemed much, much longer.

When I got there - flapping, thinking the worst, and worrying for England - he was waiting outside in the cold and rain so he could lead me to the room where she was being treated.

"This way, Dad," he said, running back into accident and emergency.

She was clearly not well but the painkillers had started to kick in so she was able to tell me what a great, heroic job our son had done.

Perhaps it seems a little insensitive in the circumstances but, as I gave her a hug, I couldn't help noticing that she was wearing her Christmas slippers.

"What are you doing wearing those?" I blurted out.

"Well, I couldn't come to hospital in those tatty old slippers, could I?" she winced. "You'll just have to get her something else for Christmas," said the nurse, helpfully.

It all happened a couple of weeks ago now. The results of the various tests are still awaited but my wife is much better.

"Don't worry, Dad - Mum's going to be all right," Christopher has told me more than once since the night it happened.

I don't see him a little boy any more. He's on the verge of being a man, capable of keeping his head in a crisis, and doing a much better job than his dad could have done.

I'm proud of him. And, who knows, he might even be able to help me come up with an idea to replace the slippers.