On a Sunday night twenty-nine years ago I was bowling with my husband, the proverbial fat-dumb-and happy person in my eighth month of pregnancy. My best friend and I were both due to give birth the next month in May and we had enjoyed comparing pregnancies the entire time.
Monday I woke from a dream that my water had broken only to find it true and of course I was panicky because it was a month too soon. When it was finally time for the doctor's office to open I called him and told him of my dream and that I thought my water had broken while I was sleeping which he poo-pooed, but he told me to come on in to see him. Well, guess who was right (and here my family interjects "as always").
He sent us back home to pack a bag and Joe drove me to the hospital where we spent a very long day with me connected to a pitocin drip meant to induce labor. By eight thirty that evening I was still far away from serious labor and the doctor apparently had had enough so he cranked up the drip and wow! They had to hustle me into the labor room and when Joe stepped out to put on his gown and mask he was delayed by a group of prospective parents who were touring the birth facilities and was "modeling" his labor room outfit for them. At that point the doctor was saying in a rather urgent tone "where's the father?" as Darby had finally decided it was time to be born and a nurse had to run out to find him.
Arriving at 9:03 p.m. and weighing 5 lb. 2 1/2 ounce Darby Joseph S. spent the next eleven days in intensive care as his little lungs were weak and it took awhile for him to gain enough strength to feed and breathe reliably on his own. But finally the day came when we could take him home and watch him grow.
And watch him grow I have over these past twenty nine years and for all the parenting mistakes I made, he turned out pretty damned good. Happy birthday, kiddo, we love you.
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