Happy Birthday! My little sweety. 32 weeks into my first and only pregnancy, the little sex-unknown bundle of kicking and screaming joy, decided it was time to get the hell out. My water broke at Mountain Mike's Pizza on El Camino, at a party I was hosting for a departing Stanford Employee.
When I realized I was standing in a puddle, and no I had not just wet my pants from laughing to hard, without any explanation to the party people I rushed to Stanford Hospital (glad to have a clean towel service towel in my swim bag), parked outside the ER and just squish/squashed in, in flip/flops that were all wet, and announced the name of my baby doctor.
A bit hysterical, because I could feel little contractions starting, I was rushed into a room, in a gown now, my soaking wet dress in a paper bag in the closet. I started calling people. Whoever. Could not reach anyone right away because it was Friday evening.
They did a quick ultra sound and said the baby was good sized but they wanted to hold me back, so started the IV drugs, and steroid injections to help the baby's lungs mature. Three days later, when it was convenient for every one else, they let me proceed and push her out.
September 14, 1987. Her original due date was November 10. Apparently, she wanted to be a Virgo, and by god she is a Virgo. Twelve days later, I brought her home. Then the fun began.
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