It's stilltwo weeks before my due date, but my bag is packed. Fitz made sure of it.
He's become quite the overprotective father, and I don't mind it one bit. I was stuck at work late, and he was hanging out at my house on a night we had planned to go to dinner.
He worked it out so he could spend the last few weeks of my pregnancy in LA, which has meant entrusting the cattle ranch and the farm to a new foreman, but so far it seems to be working out. Then I’ll spend the first couple of weeks of my maternity leave in Willow Springs so we can both be with the baby.
When I come home from work, he shows me everything that he put into the bag. “Oh my gosh, Fitz. This is amazing.”
It makes me smile to think about my brawny cowboy reading baby books for tips on what to put in our Go Bag. It has snacks for me, snacks for him, a zippered velvet onesie, and a little hat for the baby to wear home from the hospital. It's like a littleyellow terrycloth snowsuit with a bear on the chest and a hood with little bear ears.
“I also brought you this. Nothing’s longer than a page,” he says, showing me a book of poetry. My attention span is that of a gnat lately, so I appreciate the brevity.
“I love it. It’ll be a nice break from reading this.” I indicate all the reading material on my laptop. Our court date for the trial against Tomahawk Corporation isn’t for a few months, but the amount of preparation I’ll need to do just as the baby is coming feels overwhelming.
Maybe it’s good to have choices between what scares me more—the idea of arguing on behalf of Willow Springs or the fear of how I'm going to push a child out of my body.
I put the bag in the closet because there’s no way I’m having this baby before my due date. I still need time to mentally prepare, and if I can keep it inside for two more weeks, that’s how it’s going to be.
Hannah delivered two days after her due date, and genetics are strong, so I’m reassured thinking that’s probably how it will go for me.
So it surprises me when I feel my stomach harden and clench with a jolt of pain.
“Ow, geez!” I exclaim.
Fitz startles from where he's reading a psychological thriller on the couch. “You okay?”
“I think I just had a Braxton Hicks contraction. You know, it's false labor, but it still hurts.”
“What makes you think it's false labor?” He comes to my side, puts a hand on my belly, and kisses my temple the way he does several times a day when we’re together.
“It has to be. I’m not having this baby for two more weeks.”
He chuckles and walks over to where I’m standing there defiant, cupping my belly with both hands as though I can holdthe baby in. Tucking me under his arm, he walks me to a chair, and I sit. Then he kneels in front of me and calmly smiles. “I don’t think it works that way. If the baby is ready to be born, that’s what’s happening.”
My arms flail about. I’m uninterested in his attempt to make me chill out. “Don’t I get a say? My body shouldn’t be making decisions without me.”
“Better get used to it. I don’t think you’re the boss anymore.”
I pout at that, and Fitz puts a hand on my cheek. “We’re in this together. Don’t worry.” He kisses my temple.
I nod, still sulking.
“But let’s take the contractions seriously. You're close enough to your due date that this could be the real thing.”
“I'm pretty sure it's false labor,” I say, determined to be the boss of my body and know it better than he does. “I feel certain that if I were having a baby today, I would know it.”
An hour later,as I huff and puff in the back seat of Fitz’s truck, I have to admit I don't know anything.
The contractions have gotten closer together, and now they're more painful, causing me to lose my breath each time one comes. Looking at Fitz’s eyes in the rearview mirror, I see a furrow in his brow as he presses the gas pedal harder. “Relax, I’m not going to have the baby in the back of your truck. You can slow down.”
“You also said you weren’t gonna have the baby for two weeks. I’m not sure I should listen to you right now.”
“I think I’m offended by that.”
We called the doctor as soon as my contractions were ninety seconds apart, which is what he instructed when I had my last office visit. I was unwilling to call him a minute before then.
I’m still timing them with a stopwatch on my phone, and now they’re closer to a minute apart. I don’t mention this to Fitz because he’s already pushing the speed limit. We’re only a few blocks from the hospital now, and he knows where to park and how to get us to the third-floor maternity ward.
“She’s in active labor. Tessa Demille,” Fitz tells the labor nurse who brings a wheelchair over. Within minutes, I’m shown to a room, where a different nurse takes my vital signs and straps a monitor around my swollen belly to monitor contractions.