There are parts of labor that really hurt. Not me, I mean Phoebe. There’s this one part called the “transition,” which is the time after the cervix has… ah, you can look it up, this isn’t the Discover Channel.

The thing is, the “transition” generally means the baby will be coming out in an hour or so, and it really really, really hurts. When Phoebe was in this transition stage, she didn’t so much speak as gasp. So if I report that she said to me, “Sean, see if my mother will take the kids somewhere for awhile,” it is only for the sake of clarity. An accurate report would be that she said something like, “Sean, unh, it, Mom… ow, kids… away!”

Which wasn’t a bad idea, as the kids were going insane. Well, not insane, not legally, but without such stationary entertainments as television or computers, they were quickly reverting to more old-fashioned diversions, such as jumping off of the sofa, or banging on the wall with a spoon. Annette took them to her house.

And we were alone, and the house was quiet. The only light was the sun, and the only sound was the occasional distant birdsong, or pained scream from my wife. Phoebe and I sat in the bedroom, waiting for baby Theodore, or Beatrice. Or Bridget, or the OG+E man.
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