By the time 11:30 a.m. comes around, Monie’s back in bed and I’m stuffed into a pair of green scrubs. At the moment, I’m sitting next to her holding her hand, or should I say, waiting for her next contraction to come along and break another finger. Having been present for both of my children’s births with Tiff, I know what to expect. Or at least I think I do. Finding out about Tommy’s birth and not knowing what the ordeal was is still weighing on my mind. I mop Monie’s glistening forehead with a towelette, pushing her matted hair away from her eyes as the doctor checks her out down below. (What’s the doctor’s name again?)
“You’re ten centimeters, Monica,” the doctor says, looking up. “Getting close. Sure you don’t want an epidural?”
Monie shakes her head weakly, then suddenly turns and v
