Five

I tell Pepita about that night five years ago. She loves the drama and the suspense. She loves that part when her daddy drops me off at the entrance to Johns Hopkins and yells in a panic, "You have to get an epidural! Don't forget to tell them you want an epidural!" because it hurt that bad.


Six centimeters. We waited till I was six centimeters to drive to the hospital. Seven, eight...

I tell her how just a couple hours later, our two favorite midwives began their shift. Sweet. Nice timing, Pepita! They shooed overzealous med students out of my personal space and were our most awesome advocates.

Her heart rate plummeted. She had to come out. The room was packed with people now. Vacuum extractor, forceps and scalpel. Thank God I had the epidural. I tell her, "They had to get you out of me, so they used this vacuum that should have stuck to the top of your head but you had too much hair so it didn't work!" and we laugh.

Nine. It was just after nine in the morning now. I heard, "She's beautiful!" I said, "I can't see her." There were too many people in the room. My midwife brought my girl to me. My baby.

My biggest girl.