Three years, one month, and ten days ago.
I was reluctant to share this story, because it feels self-indulgent, somehow (unlike, say, the rest of this blog? This blog that is all about me?) but then I read this and thought, hell, that’s good reading!
So here’s mine. This is not for the squeamish; there are bodily fluids and shrieking and Dan Rather sightings.
It was fourteen days exactly before the baby was due. I was at my weekly midwife appointment, and I was leaking. “I think,” I told the midwife, “that my water broke. Or, you know, is breaking.”
My husband was there. Because I was huge and cranky and exhausted, he had offered to come with me. I wouldn’t miss an opportunity to make him go to one of the endless number of appointments I had endured, so I said yes.
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