I had a dream that Liam came early, and I wasn’t witness to the birth. The murky quality of my dreams tends to obscure specifics, and last night was no exception. For some inexplicable reason, I was stuck visiting a friend (who, in real life, is one of my most vile enemies, which is odd) and Natania had to phone me from the hospital and tell me that everything was fine.
This is so antithetical to my vision of the birth that I woke feeling somewhat glum. I had missed the arrival of my firstborn, an event that would only occur once in any man’s life.
Luckily (though the primigravida herself may disagree) Natania was beside me, and her belly was proof that, at 34 weeks, our son is still nestled snug in his womb.
Next Sunday, we’re leaving for a week, heading to the coast. I’m hoping we aren’t forced to deliver in a foreign hospital, without our midwife. I have to remind myself that we’ll be in Wilmington, and not Timbuktu; the medical facilities aren’t third world, just somewhat alien.
I predict that we’ll meet Liam a week earlier than predicted, sometime around the first week of August. Currently we’re taking bets. Any takers?
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