Matching Tracksuits

K awakens me with the news: “I think my water broke.”

Again, from birthing classes, we know that this is not a sign to rush to the hospital immediately. There are still no contractions, and the trick for knowing when to go to the hospital is 4-1-1 — contractions which are four minutes apart, last for one minute each, and continue like this for one hour.

“All this is part of early labor,” the birthing instructor informed us weeks ago. “This could last for hours, and it’s important for mothers to be as relaxed as possible. Go for a walk. Take a hot bath. Watch your favorite movie,” her advice continued.

We’d decided we’d watch My Big, Fat Greek Wedding — a movie about an amusing clash of cultures not entirely unlike what my family experienced at our own, Polish wedding.

But who wants to watch a movie at four in the morning?

K decides to call the midwife, just to make sure everything is fine. She learns that we need to meet at the hospital by eight if nothing has happened. “If contractions do not begin within four hours of water breaking, we’ll need to induce labor,” she explains.

We begin last minute preparations for our big adventure.

Once everything is packed, I come back to the computer and publish the pre-prepared post about going to the hospital. I set the time for eight, figuring that no matter what, we’d be on our way by then.

As I’m finishing up, K informs me that her first contraction has hit. It’s 4:15 a.m., and the contraction lasts about fifteen seconds, and about four minutes later, the second hits, also fifteen seconds.

Four minutes later, the third: about thirty-five seconds.

Four minutes later, the fourth: about forty-five seconds.

K tells me we’re going to the hospital within a few minutes. I’m still skeptical.

A little over an hour later, at 5:30, we leave for the hospital.

Three o’clock, Friday — my phone rings. As always, I jump when I see it’s K calling. “Is she having contractions? Is she?”

She always reassures me that that’s not why she’s calling, and this time is no different. She does, however, also inform me this time that her afternoon visit at the midwife’s clinic revealed that she’s one centimeter dilated and ninety percent effaced.

“Ninety percent?” I say. “Our daughter could pop out any minute!” I joke.

“Ninety percent,” I mutter to myself after I hang up the phone. Saturday night’s plans are probably for naught; I probably won’t be coming to work next week; we’re going to have a daughter by weekend’s conclusion.

Nothing’s certain; everything’s certain. I rush back inside to flesh out my lesson plans for Monday and Tuesday. My skeletal outlines will never do if someone else is leading class.

“Ninety percent,” I say again.

It seems certain we’ll be meeting our daughter this weekend.