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Ah, reminiscing about the first pregnancy…

Here’s the scenario: the Mister was in school, I was working full-time and worked until the last minute. Literally. I’m pretty sure I went into labor at work. We lived a 40-minute drive from his school and my job if we timed it right.

I set my work schedule so that I was traveling before rush hour both ways, which meant that I was out the door (and during the short-day months, at my desk) before the sun came up. I started early, and I was accustomed to being done early.

Third trimester rolled around, and it was time to pick a hospital tour session. Tour times fell in the evenings.

Which meant, I had to keep myself awake and entertained for four hours waiting for my tour to start. I worked a block and a half from the hospital and had a hefty commute home, so it didn’t make sense for me to go home and turn right around to come back.

I was tired, very pregnant, and a little cranky. And I wasn’t particularly looking forward to the tour. Wasn’t there some handout telling me which floor was maternity?

Since my husband’s school was close to my job, we commuted together at the time. We would arrive at a time considered by most to still be night, so he would study before class, sit through class, then study some more until I was ready to go.

So he was up with me, and probably pretty wiped out, too. Long day.

So, take our zombie tiredness. Add in the fact that we had already had at least 15 hours of childbirth preparation under our belts, so the information presented was nothing new (except where to go and visiting hours). Top it off with stupid questions from clueless and squeamish dads-to-be (for goodness sake, read something!).

And you end up with The Mister and me, the “bad kids” cracking jokes in the back.

Disclaimer: My husband and I are typically polite and composed individuals. We know how to conduct ourselves during these things. I was just over that day and my filters weren’t working properly. Hence the antics…

First stop was the nursery. Cute little penguin cutouts with names on them were all over the windows. But, there weren’t any babies in the nursery. Upon closer look, we realized the names on the penguins were the Pittsburgh Penguins players’ names.

Correction: he realized the names were the Pittsburgh Penguins’ names. I was once asked to name a person in a photo, and my best guess was, “some white rapper who likes to wear big rings.” The person in the pic was Sidney Crosby, wearing a Stanley Cup ring.

The closest I come to watching sports is having Iron Chef on as background noise while I write. Cut me some slack.

I nudged The Mister. “Shouldn’t those be the babies’ names? This town is so sports-crazed,” I said.

“I don’t see any babies. They must be on lockout,” he joked.

Meanwhile, the couple next to us briefly conversed in Russian and laughed a little. I didn’t think anything of it.

We made our way to the labor and delivery room. The tour guide pointed out all the fancy state-of-the art features and vaguely described what happens after the babies make their entrances.

One of the dads looked a little green. “You clean the baby off before we hold it, right?” He asks with a grimace. No, grimace is the wrong word. He had a look on his face like you just overturned the biohazard bin onto his head…as he was talking about meeting his firstborn for the first time. 

There was no way I hid that eye-roll. The Mister nudged me. “Real men aren’t afraid of vernix,” he said.

Right on! Major husband points for paying attention in childbirth class! That, and being awesomely not afraid of birth goo.

The tour lasted way too long and I had been wearing creased pants and pumps for what seemed like a century. All the moms- and dads-to-be all piled into the elevator at once.

The Mister nudged me again. “All of these people are going to the same parking paystation…”

Noted. Before he could finish, I started to wiggle my way to the front of the elevator. As soon as those doors opened, I plowed my way through the crowd with tunnel vision toward the paystation. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see one guy who had the same idea, and was gaining on me.

Aw hayl nah.

I was going to be first. My days didn’t start at 4:00 a.m. so that I could wait in line. I was going to get home. No, if I was that hurried, we were probably about to go eat, then go home.


The guy in the corner of my eye was about to cross my path, or worse – pass me. As I rounded the corner around the information desk, I used my big ol’ belly to cut him off and pull ahead.

I won. I WON I WON I WON! After we paid and left, I noticed that the runner up was the Russian guy.

We made our way to the car, when The Mister said, “yup, that was him.”


“You just belly checked a Pittsburgh Penguin into the information desk. During the playoffs!”

I had to look up what check meant in hockey.

It’s an effective technique, I must say.

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