You Were Due at the End of the Month...

So there was plenty of time to attend to all of my unfinished business - pack a bag, make arrangements for your sister and tie up work-related loose ends. Imagine my concern when at midnight I started thinking that you started thinking the end of the month was too long to wait. I thought it was the spicy fish from the Chinese restaurant the next town over...or maybe some leftover blood pressure adjustments given our flight from Florida two weeks earlier. As is always the case whenever I go into denial mode, I went to bed. That lasted thirty minutes. Then I worked on some files - yes, yes, Type-A has to make up for Last Minute Lucy - then I thought I had better pack s.o.m.e.t.h.i.n.g. for the obligatory twenty-four hour hospital rotation. Looked for this, looked for that, screw the packing, I decided to shave...my legs...couldn't see them, but went for broke regardless. All creamed up and on to the kitchen to call anesthesiology. The nurse on duty gently suggested that I wanted to call my obstetrician, but no, I insisted, I called anesthesiology ON PURPOSE and I wanted the anesthesiologist ready and waiting for my arrival. (They talked about that one for months.) Then I called next door to let them know that I needed a responsible adult to attend to your sleeping two year old sister because I was heading to delivery. Twenty minutes later, Auntie asked "Who was that?" and Uncle responded "Amy..." pregnant pause (pardon the pun, but it WAS 2:30 IN THE MORNING) then, leaping forth, excitedly announced "We gotta go - we're having a baby." WE? Look it guys, I'm all about equality, but I gotta draw the line when it comes to passing a seven pound bowling ball through a space the size of a straw. There is no WE. There is me and one ubiquitous, let's-get-this-show-on-the-road uterus. And the anesthesiologist. But I digress.

While subjecting Uncle's hand to the death-grip with each mounting contraction - and every woman throughout the history of humanity who has entered into labor unmedicated KNOWS what I mean - we watched as Dad backed down the driveway, without us, drove back into the driveway and ran into the house howling "I gotta pee like a racehorse." ( Don't know...never saw one ) By 3-ish we were in the birthing suite, where apparently nobody in anesthesiology took my humble request with any seriousness as the anesthesiologist was no where to be found as he was busy, attending to a slew of needy accident victims in the E.R., imagine...and I was refusing to breath feeling less than important...Get over it, I know, I know. However, I was waiting for the anesthesiologist and that was that.

You were not.

At 4:45 a.m. you spontaneously erupted into the arms of the half-dressed obstetrician who literally caught you by the leg, at the ankle, with one gloved hand and clogs on his feet - with no socks. I haven't worn clogs without socks since. He was wonderful. You were perfect. We relaxed.

The anesthesiologist arrived at 5.

Happy 19th Birthday My Middle One - You are so very special and I love you the most.