Here's the story: after our Indian food dinner, I was having contractions sporadically throughout the night, sent I. and S. to school and work at 7:30 the next morning. I decided to take a walk to see if I was really in labor, and left the house at 8:30, measuring contractions about 5 minutes apart; but I got about half a mile down the road and turned around, feeling like this was not a good idea. I called S.: by 9:30, he was home, and contractions were 5 minutes apart, getting faster. We decided to stay at home for another 20 minutes or so, and before we knew it, contractions were coming 3 minutes apart. I suggested we leave for the hospital, and told Steve that he'd better not make me put on my seat belt, because I'd be damned if anyone was going to prevent me from squatting (which my body desperately wanted to do). S. drove as gently as he could. We arrived at the hospital, and I had two contractions in the parking lot. By this point, I was barely hearing what people were saying to me. Some gentleman helped me into a wheelchair, and took us around to a back elevator.
I contracted in the elevator, and somehow made it into the maternity ward, where there was way too much discussion about getting me a room. Finally, I made it into a room, where they discovered I was fully dilated and ready to give birth. Someone said, "umm, we're having a baby here, folks" ...The Bean was born 7 minutes after we arrived at the hospital.
Fully baked, folks. The miracle is, indeed, possible.
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