The Christmas Party

The company held the Christmas party after the New Year in 2002. They were just starting up in our neck of the woods and hadn't officially opened for business. Having the party later was to help kick off the year on a high note.

It was Saturday, January 5th. My older daughter was visiting her father in another state and wouldn't be home until after midnight, so we engaged her schoolfriend to babysit the two-year-old.

My husband's new boss hosted the party - his house was enormous: a McMansion of cavernous proportions, decorated just so, the marks of an interior designer evident in every pillow, painting, and carefully arranged book. When we entered, there were about a dozen people mingling about, most of whom I had never met.

There would be no glass of wine or bottle of microbrew to help me over my nervousness. I was, you see, nine months' pregnant, a vision of pudginess in a red Liz Claiborne sweater and black velour maternity pants. Looking around at the sleek, chic, slender corporate wives I was expected to share my evening with, I was acutely aware of my bloated face and oversprayed hair. My walk was ungainly and painful - the baby had settled down in my hips, making each step as unbalanced as if I'd just stepped out of the saddle.

Thank God for artichoke dip and a straight backed chair to sit in.

Game time...there were actual games to play. The games followed the obligatory motivational speech and incentive DVD. Apparently, the idea was for all of the new employees to bond through inanity and humiliation. Each guest was partnered with someone not his or her own spouse. I was partnered with John from North Dakota. Good! Someone who knows that Fargo isn't actually in Minnesota and that not everyone in the upper Midwest punctuates each sentence with a hearty "you betcha!"

All eyes turned to us as we won the first prize of the evening: a Magic 8 Ball. The Magic 8 Ball - yes, that's the one. The one that revealed the mysteries of romance and math scores for you in junior high school back in the '70s. The dime-store psychic.

"Hey! Ask it if you're having that baby tonight!"

Sure. Why not? It's a party, right?

shake shake

"Will I go into labor tonight?"

Signs point to yes.

Hmmm. Interesting. Well, how hard could it be? I was two days away from my due date. Magic 8 Ball didn't have to stretch too far.

"Ask it if you're having a girl!"

shake shake

"Am I having a girl?"

Ask again later.

Later? How much later? Is twenty seconds good?

shake shake

"Am I having a girl?"

It is doubtful.

Hmmm.

shake shake

"Am I having a boy?"

It is likely.

Curious.

Could the mystical billiard ball really know the truth?

We left shortly thereafter, my stomach not feeling well from excessive consumption of artichoke dip and an overwhelming sense of being nine months' pregnant, for crying out loud!

I drove the babysitter home. I don't remember why. Temporary insanity, no doubt. I took the two-year-old along with me. Surely it must have been some form of insanity. After dropping the sitter off, I swung by the grocery store on the corner a mile from home. We'd left the party so early that Mr. Space Age hadn't had enough to eat. I carried my daughter, slung onto one achy, waddling hip, and tossed a couple of packages of frozen egg rolls and tiny tacos into the basket held in my other hand. I made my way to the checkout as quickly as I could, undoubtedly looking wild eyed and ready to drop a toddler and a newborn onto the tiled floor at any moment. The looks I received from customers and employees alike were testament to that fact, though I did make it out of the store and back home carrying everything with me that I'd brought into the store. Including the toddler and the not-yet-newborn.

Later that night, in the quiet after the mister and child had both fallen asleep, I remembered the parting words of Mr. Space Age's new boss: "Don't be afraid to call me at three in the morning when you're at the hospital!" Behind him, a shout of laughter. I had laughed too. "I don't think it will be three in the morning," I'd answered, figuring the watermelon in my belly would take its sweet time.

You're a clever one, aren't you? You've guessed where this is going?

I was, indeed, at the hospital downtown at three in the morning. I'd stayed up late - nearly until two - restless and unable to sleep. Feeling strange. It was my third pregnancy. "Feeling strange" should have been the tipoff, though once again, I didn't recognize signs. As I lay in bed, watching the flashing blue numbers on the clock change to two a.m., I felt small contractions. They came and went with frequency, though not enough to make me start in pain. At 2:15, I wondered how long I'd let it go on before waking my husband. A minute or so later the answer came: my water broke. Hmmm. Yes. NOW would be a good time to wake him!

We braved slick black ice on the way to the hospital some time later, after our daughter had been picked up by friends to spend the rest of the night at there house. I was deposited into a wheelchair and headed for the elevator to the L&D floor at just around 3:00.

The Magic 8 Ball was on to something, and clearly in collusion with the mister's boss.

At 8:18am on Sunday, January 6, 2002, my 10 lb, 9 ounce son was born, as beautiful a baby as I'd ever seen, with velvet brown eyes like his father's.

He's the baby of my babies, the last in line, my round-cheeked little guy. And tomorrow he will be four.