“What are you looking at? Baby stuff?”
“Work stuff,” he said. “Can’t sleep.”
I didn’t push. Why would I? I was eight months pregnant, and my feet were the size of loaves of bread, and I just wanted a glass of milk and to go back to sleep.
I trusted him. That was the whole point of him. I trusted him with everything.
My labor started on a Thursday evening in late October.
I was standing in the kitchen stirring pasta sauce when I felt a pop, and then warm water ran down my legs and onto the tile.
“Ben,” I called. Very calmly. “Ben, I think it’s time.”
He came running in, took one look at the puddle on the floor, and said, “Oh. Oh, okay. Okay. Okay.” He said “okay” maybe forty times. He grabbed the hospital bag, then put it down, then grabbed his keys, then put them down, then grabbed the bag again.
