Becky sits in the passenger seat of the car. She keeps the pillow over her wet pants. Luckily we hit the beltline before rush hour so there's no completely insane idiots cutting around the highway. We know where to go - the Rex Birthing Center. The problem is we have no clue what's going to happen there. When we finally got a facility tour booked, it was for June 2.
I'm not quite sure of what sort of "package" options they have. Some of these birth centers go out of control with the pleasures. Four star meals, Broadway touring companies and donkey rides could be options. I'm frightened that they'll shift us into the Rockefeller suite with the gold plated stirrups and diamond encrusting puke buckets. Although with my luck we'll get the Clark Rockefeller treatment.
I dump Becky at the front door of the center and head around to the parking deck. She's still not feeling any contractions so I have no need to race inside with her screaming "Medic! Medic!" Instead I slowly walk from the deck with the pressing thought that my afternoons of leisurely working on articles are pretty much over. I'm going to be a dad. I need to start pricing shotguns to keep Marilyn Manson from hitting on my daughter.
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