<!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]-->I wasn't quite finished with the mowing when I looked up and noticed my wife walking across the yard to me, arms waving to get my attention.  She was waddling really as she was, I believe the saying is "great with child."  She had just returned from her weekly visit to the OB and I assumed was letting me know she was back home and wanted to know what I had planned for dinner.  She's thoughtful like that.  Being that I had been mowing for the last three hours (hey, it's a big lawn) I had surely given some thought to the matter of dinner and would have a hearty meal whipped up before the hum of the mower had died completely. 

I knew immediately that she was not flagging me down for the purposes of discussing dinner preparations.  Something else was going on.  "Doc says the amniotic fluid level has decreased significantly since last weeks' visit and that the uterine wall has a marked area of thinning.  He wants me back at the hospital for monitoring."

"Monitoring?  What exactly did he say?  This does not sound like routine monitoring."

"Well...He said the uterine wall is thin enough that it could spontaneously rupture and that the fluid level is low enough that the baby may be in danger so he just wanted to monitor for a few hours.  He said if everything was fine after a few hours of monitoring we could go back home and he would probably deliver the baby tomorrow.  Other than that the visit was great!"

We weren't ready.  Is anyone ever?  Immediately we sprang to action calling family, my sister-in-law dropped everything to keep watch over Zoë and Zane and my wife and I made way for the hospital.  (Yes, I did shower first.)  They had been expecting us and in short order my wife was connected to all manner of monitoring devices and paraphernalia.  Not sure if it's because my wife is a doctor at the hospital or if the people on the OB ward treat everyone this way but I felt like we were the only people there, that our situation was real and important to them.  They were caring and comforting and could not have been more pleasant.

To my great relief, everything the monitor was showing us reflected the way that my wife was feeling---just fine.  After about an hour, the doctor stopped by to discuss the situation.  His words were, "everything looks fine, baby is doing just fine and your vitals are all fine.  If you feel OK you can go home and we'll schedule the C-section for in the morning.  Or..., since you're here and I'm here and the OR team is here now we could go ahead and do this now."  His eyes were saying, "Pick B! Pick B!!"

As my wife would say, "That's a softball."  Her little term for a no brainer, an easy one, get your head out of your ass this is as clear as day kind of question.  We picked B.  And so it was that around dinner time our little Zia came screaming into the world, pulled from the relative comfort of the womb that had kept her safe and warm these past months.  Screaming, I say because I vividly recall this <!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]-->scenario. 

After the delivery, as is customary, Zia was taken down the hall to the nursery to be cleaned and swaddled evaluated and whatever it is that they do to newborn babies.  My wife was quite sore from the C-section and still quite loopy from the medications that had been given her during the delivery.   Not ten full minutes had passed when the phone rang in the OR suite (yes, we were still in the OR suite) and the nurse on the other end of the phone said, "Come get this screaming child!" 

You know, she still screams louder than any of my kids.  I can't believe it's been four years.  Happy Birthday, Zia!  I love you, Curly Sue!
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(my apologies for these little code things showing up in the text.  I couldn't figure out how to get rid of them and the twins were screaming to be fed.)