January 22nd dawned still and clear. It was a perfect Hawaiian day, an ideal morning for idle yard-work and occasional refreshing lawn lager. I puttered heavily through the morning, bushwhacking and lopping at the luxuriant tropical jungle that threatened to overwhelm the little frame bungalow.

The idea of the birth had slid to the back of my mind. I had been prepared two weeks ago, but with each passing day the likelihood seemed to become more remote rather than more imminent, as those the pregnancy had become some sort of permanent feature in our lives.

Mother-in-;aw had planned her arrival in the Islands to coincide with the originally predicted date of birth. Air bookings being set in concrete as they were in those days, we had a chance to show her around a little bit as we awaited the inevitable that didn’t seem to be that. I remember having to fly off the island in the immediate aftermath of the passing of Hurricane Iwa the November before, which was very strange.

It actually worked out rather nicely, although at any given moment you could hear the sound of three sets of toes tapping impatiently.

The morning slid away and the afternoon was punctuated with the arrival of an ambulance down the street. A block convention gathered to comment on the cause: coronary? Household catastrophe?

Out front we were joined in short order by Ed and his two sons who had followed the vehicle in hopes that it indicated some progress on the Baby Socotra front. Alas, the event turned out only to be a broken rib suffered in a neighbor’s ignominious fall from a toilet seat. The situation seemed to call for some beers, so we found the menfolk gathered on the redwood lawn furniture in the backyard. And then throwing the football with an assortment of the neighborhood kids while swilling icy-cold suds.

My wife was playing scrabble on the lanai with her mother. Were I astute enough to have followed things closely, I might have observed my wife was never going to get a “U” to follow the letter “Q,” because it still in the game box. Neither of the ladies noticed, a matter which prompts me to add a definitive list of Labor indicators, tow help those who find themselves in a similar state of apprehension:

Critical Signs of Early Labor:

– * Ambulances arrive nearby
– * Neighbors suffer injuries in embarrassing circumstances
– * You have an overpowering urge to destroy innocent shrubs
– * Wife plays scrabble with Mother
– * Steaks are defrosted for dinner
– * It is the last thing on your mind since the guys are over and drinking beer.

A length the children tired of football, and the men agreed that naps might be a fine idea- and not necessarily for the kids. I wandered inside to observe hour preparations were going for dinner. The potatoes were just ready to pop in the oven and I was slipping on my flip-flops to fire up the grill when an announcement came from my wife:

“Ouch,” she said calmly. “That one was really sharp.”

“What one?” I asked suspiciously, “Are you having contractions?”

“No. I mean, I don’t know. Just pressure.”

“How often is it happening?” I wracked my brain for the memories of the Lamaze class months before. “Like, is it every fifteen minutes?”

“It is more like continuous.”

I got out the watch and score pad that had been pre-staged in the junk drawer. “Well, let’s get organized about this. Tell me when the next pressure starts and I get it down in ink fo we can judge how this is going.”

“O.K.,” she said. “Ouch!”

“Right. Starting now. Tell me when it stops.”

She did about three minutes later.

“I think I want to go to the hospital.”

“Roger that,” I said, attempting to impose order on something over which we had no further control. I thought to myself: “Feets, don’t fail us now. ”

Copyright 2015 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303