Being that the day was sort of a blur for her, Mindy asked me to write down my recollections of June 12, 2008, the day Edwin was born. It took me a while to get to it, but I finally finished it as a present for her 30th birthday. In honor of Edwin's 1st birthday this Friday, we have decided to put a serialized version here on the blog.
Not Going to Work Today
Thursday starts like countless weekdays before it. Cell phone alarm goes off at six a.m. Turn off emergency clock radio alarm set for twenty minutes later. Try to get the dog to follow me out of the bedroom without waking Mindy, probably fail. Quick pit stop—staring at me won’t make this happen any faster, dog. Scale says I don’t weigh any less than I did yesterday, darn. Downstairs, then outside for the dog’s turn at a pit stop.
Trip to the kitchen and go through the motions that I’m pretty sure could be done before that annoying wake-up step: some water and precisely three-quarters of a cup of dry food for the dog (I know Mindy gives her too much), Centrum with my OJ, and what I tell myself is only one cup of Cheerios with one percent.
Move to the living room to eat my breakfast and watch the standard forty-five minutes of ESPN, cable news, MTV and infomercials. Stairs creaking. Mindy’s coming down—I’ve obviously woken her. But I always do, and she always goes right back to sleep until seven, at least.
“Did you hear me up all night?” she asks. She asks me that every three mornings or so, the answers always the same. “Nope.” “So you didn’t hear me on the phone with the doctor then?” She’s feeling strange. Mucus plug’s probably broken. Can’t feel the baby move the text book five times per half hour. Doctor’s orders were go back to sleep, eat breakfast when you wake up, then lie down for a kick count. If she’s not feeling the baby move at that point, come in.
Mindy being Mindy, she follows the directions exactly (except the go back to sleep part—doubtful that happened). I start my shower while she starts her kick count. Barely wet and words I can’t make out come at me from the bedroom. Frustrating. She always does this to me. It’s somehow my fault that I can’t hear her when I’m in the shower and she’s speaking at a normal volume in a another room.
“I think my water broke”, she finally musters up the voice to yell. Oh. “Uh…hold on…I’m coming out.” Dripping wet standing on the hardwood bedroom floor, I ask her what to do. She doesn’t want to get up, doesn’t want to get “stuff” everywhere. Inform her that I’ve already soaked the path from the shower to the bed, how much worse can she make it. Give her my towel, and she shuffles to the bathroom.
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