My son is now 17 years old. Wow how time flies. I remember the day he was born. My wife and I had just gotten back from Toronto. She was seven months pregnant. Something happened though on the way home. Her water broke. And now we were on our way to the hospital. Our first child, and already a crisis. Her doctor said, “go to triage,” and there we sat, trying to delay the birth of this eager child ready to enter the world before his scheduled time. So we waited not knowing what was to happen next. We just waited. A week had passed. In the meantime, for some reason, I asked the nurse if there was a video we could watch. There was. So we watched “what you would need to learn if your child was born early.” Since it was our first, we didn’t find out if we were having a girl or boy. After the video, I went upstairs to marvel at the babies who “came as scheduled.” We would later refer to them as the “big” babies. After my little excursion, I returned to the triage and my wife was gone. The doctors had been looking for me, the time had come. The tributaline, the magnesium and all that were enough to delay the baby just one week.
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