As soon as Mama left, Maggie and I knew this was going to be our last chance for a home birth. The hospital had already called to notify us that surgery was scheduled in three days, so with that Maggie and I waited all day in anticipation of bedtime. Neither one of us were talking much. We both felt an excitement and a tension knowing that in a few days, if Layla didn’t turn, we were headed to the hospital.
I puttered around the house putting a few last minute touches on “the baby’s room” as we were calling it now, and Maggie was in the kitchen all day making soup and baking bread. We were planning a nice quiet day and evening at home and then an intimate dinner together. We both realized that soon, in three days, if we couldn’t get Layla to turn, we’d be parents and our time together would never be the same.
“Honey, the bread smells great!” I said.
“Yes, I’ve decided to open a bakery myself and give those boys downstairs a run for their money!” Maggie said.
“Please don’t. I’m going to weigh 300 pounds if you do. I’ll never survive living above a French bakery and eating your bread full time!” I said.