“What’s wrong?”
I try not to laugh. I never call him during the day.
“I’m having contractions,” I whisper.
“Really?”
“Yeah, they’re still twenty minutes. I guess I’ll see what happens, if they get closer together. Maybe I’ll call the doctor.”
“Okay. Yeah, just—” His radio interrupts. It wouldn’t be a phone call between us without that.
He ends up having to go but tells me to keep him updated.
By one p.m., they’re fifteen minutes apart. I’m on my way home and Mason’s not far behind me.
He barrels inside, almost tripping on the bags I set by the door. I’m sitting on the yoga ball in the living room that’s been out for the last three weeks.
“How far?”
“Thirteen minutes.”
He’s stressed, quickly getting his belt off, feeling his pockets. Talking fast, telling me he’s not even gonna shower. He’s gonna change, load the truck, and we’re gonna go. I try not to laugh through the rambling. All I can think about it is how all mysisters-in-law—and mother-in-law—told me just a few weeks ago that all the boys were exactly like this. And thinking about how I’ll get to tell them Mason was no better makes me laugh.
The drive to the hospital feels like it takes forever. Not that I’m in much pain, but just the underlying concern that they’re going to get closer together and I’m not gonna be able to handle it.
“That one was ten minutes apart,” I say, letting out a breath.
Mason glances at me, reaching his hand onto my stomach. “They’re getting closer.”
“Yeah, what if we don’t make it in time?”
“Baby, we’re only five minutes away,” he assures me, but I hear the hint in his tone, trying not to laugh.
“We’ll make it,” he adds, rubbing my stomach.
Then, all of a sudden, I feel this snap, low in my stomach. It doesn’t hurt, but if it had a sound, it would’ve sounded like a rubber band snapped. Then…warm liquid. I know it’s not pee. I look over at Mason as if he knows what’s happening, but he’s just driving along, one hand on the wheel, the other still on my stomach, looking out his window at the road, calm.
“Mason.”
“Hmm?”
“My water just broke.”
His eyes dart to me. “What?” He sits up, trying to see, trying to drive.
I shift in the seat. “It wasn’t a lot but—” I pause, feeling more. “Now there’s more.”
Mason rubs his forehead, trying to not freak out that it’s going to be soaked into his truck seat.
“Alright, it’s uh— It’s fine. I’ll clean it up…sometime.”
I try not to laugh. “Sorry.”
“Nothing you can do about it.” He rubs my shoulder, like he’s also trying to tell himself that.
We get to the hospital, and it isn’t until then that I realize I have to walk in there with wet pants. Mason suggests a wheelchair and that’s instantly the best idea I’ve ever heard.
We get into a triage room and everything kinda blurs. I get undressed and into a gown, they check my dilation—three centimeters—then do an ultrasound. Both babies are still head down, like they’ve been for weeks. I’m relieved. I really don’t want a C-section.
