Last year

The date: Wednesday, October 29, 2014

The place: 4…. Harwick Road

The time: 2:30 P.M.

I eased onto the hideously ugly, remarkably comfortable brown couch in our newly carpeted back room. The age of the couch was magnified resting on such clean, light carpet, but I didn’t really care. I was just pumped to lay down for a bit. The past two and a half months had been a whirlwind of paperwork, penny-pinching, packing, toddler-minding, house-scrubbing, more paperwork, ten different jobs vying for our attention, and, ultimately, a new house. We had just moved our stuff in four days earlier. Additionally, I was seven-eight-nine months pregnant. Ho hum.

I hadn’t taken as many breaks as I probably should have, and with James sleeping upstairs and Roy leaving for an orchestra rehearsal, a golden opportunity to make my doctor happy presented itself. My phone was nowhere near. Nothing was vying for my time. I snuggled under a heavy blue blanket and kissed Roy goodbye as he headed downtown. It was time for a short snooze before resuming the unpacking, prepping dinner, and directing my own rehearsal that evening.

I thought about the little guy sharing naptime with me. His checkups were going great, although the doctor recommended an ultrasound two days earlier just to make sure everything was OK with my fluid levels. It checked out, and I got to see his sweet little face and was informed that he measured 6 lbs 6 oz. A good size for 38.5 weeks. James was born at 41.5 weeks so, while I didn’t anticipate meeting his little brother anytime soon, I simultaneously hoped he didn’t get TOO much bigger.

I closed my eyes, very aware that there was no weight on my feet for the first time during a daytime in too long. I don’t remember how long I relaxed, but not much time had passed before I felt something. It was like…a painless twinge. A pinch. Like somebody plucked a cello string inside my body. I half-consciously wondered for a few seconds, then realized that I, along with the canciferous couch, was getting very wet.

Shoot.

I leaped (as much as one can being 38 weeks pregnant) up and dashed for the powder room across the room. The bathroom was no more than ten feet away, but our house was so new that I still hadn’t physiologically memorized the angles. My left foot smashed into the door jam and my speed propelled me head-first into the room, where I landed awkwardly on my hands. I had zero time to think about what had just happened. I jumped onto my intended destination and surveyed the damage. Hands, which took the brunt of the fall, OK. Baby, unscathed. Feet…yeah…I had definitely broken a toe. But I couldn't even think about that for more than a few seconds.

My water just broke.What do I do?With James I was supposed to go straight to the hospital, but I tested negative for that test with this baby so I don’t have to.Where’s my phone?Will I go into labor immediately or will it take a while?How long is it safe to BE in labor once your water breaks?Roy has concerts…he’s going to be upset.What do I do with James?My water just broke.I haven’t packed a hospital bag.I don’t have baby clothes sorted or washed.My toe really hurts.I have rehearsal tonight.My water just broke.I have work tomorrow—and a quarterly meeting tomorrow night.This is poor timing.I would have given anything to have my water break with James, but not this time.My water just broke.AHHHH!

This was all silent, frantic speculation, of course. I come from a family whose exterior gets calmer the more in turmoil they are on the inside. So I probably looked like I was at the height of meditation or something, because I was fa-reak-ing out.

I somehow got upstairs—not easy to do since the back room has 8 windows and I wasn’t exactly wearing any bottoms anymore—also, I had a broken toe. I located my phone on the way up and resumed my perch on the upstairs commode. First things first—Roy.

(Roy corrects me at this point. I didn’t call him first. I called the doctor.)

First things first—the doctor!

I was connected to a nurse, who checked my file and told me that I was going to have a baby one way or another within 24 hours. (Cue lots more inward panicking/calmest-yet voice.) She said contractions would start shortly and to aim for the 1 hour-5 minutes apart-1 minute in length principle before coming to the hospital. If nothing started happening by morning, please give them a call.

OK. THEN I called Roy. I told him what I knew. I caught him in the parking garage. He walked into the hall, told the personnel manager he had to go, and left. (This seriously makes me so proud. Orchestra protocol is weird—you’re not allowed to be late or cancel for ANY reason whatsoever. You can lose your job and reputation if you’re late ONE time. It makes me all fuzzy inside to know that he just flat-out left. And that the personnel manager (who is a friend of ours) was completely understanding and supportive. Thanks guys.

Next, I called HSM and informed them I wouldn’t be directing a flute choir rehearsal that night. The office assistant I spoke with was rather aloof with me, as if she couldn’t understand how I could cancel a rehearsal that late in the afternoon. I didn’t tell her why initially—probably terrified to legitimize the situation by uttering the words aloud. Finally, after more prodding and insisting for a reason I responded, “Because of the imminent birth of my child!”

That worked.

“Oh my goodness! That’s so exciting! So-and-so—you won’t believe this! Congratulations! We’ll take care of everything! So-and-so—we have to call all the girls in the group! Good luck! Oh my goodness!!!!!”

Geesh.

Then I texted Jane. I don’t know why I didn’t call her, except that I never call her. Seriously—we’ve been friends for three years now and I don’t know if I’ve ever talked to her on the phone. Since we moved, beloved Jane is my closest friend geographically, and her daughter is James’ betrothed. And I knew she would be close to her phone. Jane, incidentally, had started pestering me to pack a hospital bag, which I hadn’t done because I KNEW I had at least two more weeks. (Maybe that’s why I didn’t call her. It’s easier to swallow humble pie via the shield of a text…)

Anyway, Jane yelled at me for a while via text, and then quickly packed her two kids up and drove over to get James. I had stopped leaking enough by that point to grab some clothes and toiletries for him. Roy got home right before she did and helped wake James up and get him ready for a “surprise sleepover with Alexa.” Thankfully, he was down with it. Jane later told me that I looked completely in control and super calm when she stopped by. See. I told you. Fa-REAK-ing out.

Before Jane arrived I texted/called (I can’t remember) Kylie. I think texting. Because I could text Kylie and Jane simultaneously. Maybe THIS is why I didn’t call…I can multitask whilst texting. (I didn’t realize this entry would just become one big justification for texting.)

ANYHOO. I needed help. I had no idea how long I had before I couldn’t focus on prep work, and Kylie is superwoman when it comes to cleaning. And, in addition to being my sister-in-law, she’s an amazingly loyal friend. She basically dropped everything and drove out immediately, which meant (and means) the world. She helped me get baby laundry washed, finished unpacking our bedroom, prepped a hospital bag, and brought us dinner in the span of a couple of hours. See? Superwoman.

Roy went out and bought decent food to take to the hospital—he, even in his super sleep-deprived state with James’ birth, remembered the hospital food. We enjoyed a big meal together and almost enjoyed the fact that we had just been forced to shelve all of the house/work stuff for the time. Bigger, much more important things were happening.

By the time Kylie left it was around 8 P.M. I was just starting to tell that things were indeed “happening.” It was shaping up to be a long night…

To be continued…

Today’s 1%: I ran around in circles with my family for a good chunk of the evening with all of the NFL themes blasting in the background. If that doesn’t improve your life by 1% I don’t know what will.