Two

Two years ago this morning, I was standing in a waiting room with my butt hanging out of a hospital gown, scarfing down a take-out box of scrambled eggs and bacon before the wrist-flapping nurses could catch me, push me back into L&D, and strap me into bed again. I fell asleep between contractions, and they slowed enough to send my doctor tutting in to inform me that I was not in labor and my baby was going to get an infection and DIE if I didn't start on pitocen.  A) I was, too, in labor. I kind of noticed. B) I had only been in active labor for 6 hours. C) asshole. Three hours later, Leif was clipped free of the cords around his neck and dropped onto me, limp and blue and unmoving. The nurse whisked him to the oxygen mask above the examination basinet, and the room was silent for long seconds while my arms hung outstretched in the air, waiting urgently. He solidified, screamed, flushed pink. Mike cried. Happy Birthday, Leif, my viking baby. I love you so much it hurts.