New Year's Eve this year is just Ben and I because I'm too pregnant to enjoy celebrating it with our friends. So it's the two of us watching the countdown. What was I thinking when I made Angie have the baby-shower in her eighth month? An even better question is, why do smart people do stupid stuff? Like another brilliant idea of mine: to beg Ben to drink champagne because I can't, and drinking champagne on New Year's is not a tradition I'm willing to give up.

On his first glass, my contractions begin to cause me pain. On his second I have to tell him about them, but we decide those are the fake Braxton-Hicks ones, because the due date isn't for three weeks and I wasn't even dilated at my appointment yesterday. Another glass of champaign later, I'm starting to doubt the fakeness, but it's eleven-fifty and I'm not going to miss the ball drop in Times Square.

"I can wait a bit. This isn't that bad," I say.

"It's been snowing all day. I'd rather we go early and come back than rush on icy roads." Ben's logic makes sense.

"Fifteen more minutes." I fold my hands in front of me, as if in prayer. "Once the ball drops, we  go."

My water breaks two minutes before midnight. The wet spot under me spreads and I'm grateful the sofa is leather.

"Ben." I raise my eyes at him and he switches his attention to me.

"Ten, nine," the countdown begins.

"I think I need to drive us to the hospital." I get up. I need to change, grab the hospital bag, Ben can start the car.

"Five, four, three."

"Why?" He can't see the splotch of wetness in the dim light of the living room.

"My water broke. I think."

"You think?"

"My pants are wet and I'm sure I haven't peed myself."

"Ok. I'm calling the ambulance."

"No ambulances, I can drive. The contractions are not that bad. I can do it."

"No. This is the first thing the doctor said: call the ambulance. That's their job."

Ambulances and I have a very dark history, and it's the last place I want to be.

"But this is not an emergency. We can call a ride share or a taxi. It's more reasonable than an ambulance."

"You'll change your mind when you have to give birth in the back seat of a car. I'm calling an ambulance." Ben dials 911 and instructs the operator on the location of the house, his and my condition. I text my doctor.

"They're sending one now. I'll go get your hospital bag. Everything will be fine. Breathe."

"No, don't go; another one is coming." The pain radiates through my body and its intensity is double what it was before the water broke. I lean against Ben's chest, and he counts into my ear.

"One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi...Ten Mississippi," he counts for me and the wave of pain starts to lessen.

"Go, get it now before the next contraction starts." I don't care about my wet plants. The paramedics won't care. It's not embarrassing. But saying it to myself doesn't make me believe it.

"Don't forget to start the timer. We need to know how many minutes there are between them." Ben runs up the stairs and disappears from view.

Ten minutes later, we hear the wails of the ambulance inside the house. Ben drapes my coat over my shoulders and helps me out of the door. Ben is meticulous about keeping the steep walkway from the front down to the garage shoveled and salted, but the snowbanks on its sides are waist-high.

The gust of wind pierces through the hat Angie's Mom, Rose, knitted for everyone she knew as her Christmas present. Her focus is on taking care of Kora and knitting her cute outfits. Fred's volunteers at Kora's daycare every week, and Kora thinks he's the best "reader of books". Kora is lucky to have grandparents like Fred and Rose nearby.

Mike's been bringing Kora into the dojang since she was a baby, and spends lots of time with her, but now more than even he relies on Fred and Rose. He's focused on widening his four local martial arts academies into a nationwide network of quality dojangs for kids and adults to learn, grow, and get support, keeping the Taekwondo traditions alive.

Angie's been traveling more, and nobody in the family—and we all are one big family now—is excited when we hear a song on the radio or TV that Angie wrote or co-wrote performed by another famous voice. She's no longer the breakout songwriter but one who is in constant demand. With Rose and Fred around, Angie knows Kora is loved and cared for, even if she isn't there.

Ben's been filming non-stop to have a backlog of videos for his channel, so he can spend the time with me and the baby, and the only cooking he plans to do for a while is for us. Having a chef and my beck and call has been amazing: Ben fulfilled all my pregnancy cravings. The filming of the fourth season of his show doesn't start until March.

The paramedics come over with a wheelchair, and I sit down in time for the next contraction to overtake me. I can feel Ben's hand is squeezing mine through the pain. Squeeze- release. Squeeze-release. We wait for the break, and they help me into the ambulance.

I'm the one lying on the stretcher now. Ben's face is above me, and I hope mine was as comforting to Dad and Tall when they were in my place, lying here, knowing they were in trouble. The paramedics put a blood pressure cuff on me and an IV with fluids into my arm. Anther wave comes, and I can't think: all is pain. My body is pain. My mind is pain. The universe is pain. I can't possibly do this. I'm going to die. I'm going to be one of those women who die in childbirth. Why is this happening to me?

Squeeze- release. Squeeze-release. Squeeze- release. Squeeze-release. Ben's here. Ben's with me. I can hear his voice through the roaring pain.

"You'll be fine. Breathe. Breathe with me." He takes a long inhale in and follows it up but an even longer exhale. Inhale, then exhale. Squeeze- release. Squeeze-release. Inhale-squeeze. Exhale-release. He breathes. I breathe. We breathe.

The maternity ward is the same one Angie gave birth at three years ago. Even the linoleum floor of the hallway is still gray. The nurses check me in, let me climb into a bed, and a flurry of activity transforms the room. My doctor is here. Ben's by my side, holding my hand, the nurse is telling me to push, that they can see the head, I push, I push again, I'm not feeling anything and feeling too much.

The tiny cry is not loud, but it pierces through the noise of the room. I can feel the squeeze-release of Ben's hand. And I respond. I cry back to the baby, and the room, and the people in it. I squeeze back to Ben, so we are back to the secret code of squeeze-squeeze, squeeze-squeeze. You'll be alright- I'm alright. I'm here for you - I know you are here for me. Squeeze-squeeze. Breathe. Push.

The baby is on my chest, and I touch one tiny hand while Ben touches the other. Our circle is complete. Three pairs of hands form a bond and a silent promise to be here for each other, to be alright. Squeeze-Squeeze-Squeeze.

"Do you have the name for the baby picked out?" Asks the doctor.

"Yes." Ben and I say in unison. "We named him Patrick."

4.18.21

It's a wrap on "Love Graduate". Draft one is done.  

Thank you for reading, for comments, for votes, for support, for feeling with the characters, for believing in me.

Two books down and (fingers crossed) many more to go. The countdown is only starting for me.

The readers like you became my best motivators.  Saying 'I'm grateful' doesn't cover how much you mean to me and what a trenemdous impact you are on my writing. 

THANK YOU!!! I'll keep saying that. THANK YOU!!!

WANT BONUS CONTENT? Join my newsletter, and you'll be the first to get the bonus chapters, alternate POVs, and all the deleted scenes. Click on the link in the comments to join the fun.