So, I spent a post detailing my latest bout with false labor contractions, but only alluded to the sub-plot of the entire evening. You know, the "other" story. The one that was playing out while I was packing my bags for the hospital.
You see, my poor, sweet hubby had come down with major flu-like symptoms a day or so before my contractions took center-stage and by Thursday, he was downright miserable. So, against my better judgment, I heard myself telling him to go ahead and take some nighttime cold relief medicine and get some rest.
About an hour after my pharmaceutical advice (and the pill) was taken, my labor began to get intense. I called a friend to explain what was going on, and we just started laughing, because all I could think about was this:
Mercy me. I'm so grateful that Daddy didn't have to miss out on his daughter's birth, because when I got home from work to pick up my suitcase and a few essentials, he was a dead-ringer for Steve Martin.
So, I drove myself to the hospital, checked-in, was unceremoniously sent home, and we avoided an exact replay of the classic "sleeping pill, wife goes into labor" plotline.
Which is good. I'd hate to be cliche'.