Free What We Have by Amy Boesky Page B

tasks, it’s just that taking care of the baby hadn’t quite registered yet as a task. I stammered something: “We’ll play it by ear,” with a “flexible schedule” and “work from home” and another Jacques-ism or two thrown in for good measure. When I wasn’t looking, Lori and Dave exchanged the knowing glances of people who have been to the Dark Continent and barely survived.
    Now I was thinking this over. “We may have to reconsider the nanny issue,” I said, and right as I said it, I became aware that something wet was whooshing out of me in unbelievable quantities. All over my side of the bed. It was like a bathtub had been unplugged. What on earth—?
    I began shaking Jacques’s arm. As I did, I guessed what had happened—my water had broken. But—it wasn’t time yet! I still had more than three weeks left!
    Twenty-four days, as a matter of fact. The due date was right there in my day planner—six days after Christmas. In ink.
    For once, I wasn’t ready. Truly not ready. I hadn’t packed yet. I wasn’t done grading blue books. We didn’t even have the crib!
    This was the last inhospitable act of my inhospitable womb. It was like ushering a guest to the door while dessert was being served.
    Sorry to rush you, little one. But it looks like it’s time to get going .
     
    I’M SURE EVERY PERSON’S EXPERIENCE of labor is different. For us, it started by arguing over where to park the car. “How long do you think we’ll be?” Jacques asked, squinting up at the parking rates at the entrance to the hospital lot. I shrugged. I hadn’t had a single contraction yet. That might mean days. On the other hand, Dr. Weiss was meeting us. We were being taken care of. “Go for the short-term lot,” I advised. Ignoring me, Jacques headed to 24 Hours or More, carefully trolling each level for the optimal spot.
    Jacques wasn’t the only one taking his time. The people in Labor and Delivery were all moving in slow motion. One woman behind the desk was on an interminable phone call, her back to us. “I know! I know!” she kept saying, her shoulders shaking with suppressed mirth. Another was sleepily riffling through paperwork. Yawn, riffle, yawn. After what seemed like forever, she jackknifed a clipboard in my direction.
    Paperwork, paperwork, paperwork. So many forms to fill out. Mother’s maiden name. Mother’s social security number—“social,” as it was cozily abbreviated by the woman at the desk through another yawn. State of birth? Date of birth? Allergies? Next of kin? Primary care physician? Ob-gyn? I signed and stamped and addressed and authorized, wondering why this never happens in the movies. Finally Dr. Weiss came in, snapping on a natty little blue jacket with OR efficiency.
    Dr. Weiss, at least, was ready for action. “So,” she said when she saw us. “What have you two decided?” No preliminaries, not even a hello.
    The baby was still breech, and Dr. Weiss wanted to know how I felt about trying “version.” “Turning the baby gently while we monitor all its vital signs in the hope that we can maneuver the baby into position” was how the process was described, which two months later we learned Blue Cross considered elective and charged us for. A thousand dollars a minute, and I didn’t even enjoy it.
    Dr. Weiss warned me version wasn’t easy, but I was game. I had that little thrill I’d gotten when I signed up for Honors Latin in graduate school instead of the one for people who can’t learn languages. We moved into one of the brand-new birthing rooms, and I lay on the table while Dr. Weiss got things ready. As she connected me to the monitor, it occurred to me Honors Latin hadn’t gone that well.
    It’s impossible to describe what version felt like. “Breathe and relax,” Dr. Weiss instructed me—easier said than done—as she and the nurse proceeded to grab onto my belly and twist with all their might. It was like having my head rotated a hundred and eighty degrees. I