I Am Suffering From A Sexually Transmitted Disease: Children!

Over the next months, I got tons of advice. Mostly unsolicited, some helpful. ("Just move a cot into the bathroom," Barb said. "You think you're peeing constantly now? Wait until junior starts tap dancing on your bladder the last couple of months. Seriously—take extra undies with you when you leave the house." Suzy presented me with a wonderful pair of nurse's shoes. Sliders, so I didn't have to tie—or, rather, try to tie my shoes. Made for nurses who stand 12 hours a day, so the support was fabulous. And Abby gave me a t-shirt reading, Boy? Girl? I was hoping for puppies! ) But nobody could really describe how it feels to have a beach ball growing under your t-shirt. By July I felt so huge, NASA should just shoot me into orbit and bounce signals off my butt.

"Are you sure it's not twins?" I regularly grumbled to Dr. Lester.

"Nope! Just one nice, normally sized, healthy baby-to-be!" she would reply each time. We had opted for a lot of tests, wanting to know if there were any medical problems in the offing. So far, so good. But we had steadfastly declined to know the gender of baby-to-be. I liked the idea of being surprised.

I had no problem working all the way up to my due date. Running a bookstore is, after all, not hard labor (for the most part). The trips to book sales were a snap; I picked and stacked, Geoff, Alan or whoever was tagged as my gopher boxed and schlepped. Even if I had thought of doing things I shouldn't, nobody at the store would have let me. This wasn't my baby or Ducky's baby—it was everybody's baby. Talk about 'it takes a village'…!

The last couple of months I took lots of naps. That, a perpetually sore back and my constant trips to the bathroom were the biggest symptoms; it was good to have a comfy daybed in the office.

September 10. Less than a week to go. The biggest question was if I was going to have the baby in prison—because if I heard one more, "Heavens, Cassandra, haven't you had that baby yet?" I was going to snap. (Chanda—who had come back to work part time—stepped up for me once, saying, "Oh, she had hers ages ago. She's just carrying this around for a friend." I was laughing so hard, I almost popped the kid out right then and there.)

Depending on the district, school had been in session for at least a week. The store was full of frantic parents trying to get the most books they could for the least amount of money. We have a special section of books required by the various local schools—the beginning of summer, it was packed solid, double-stack rows and overstock on the tops of the bookcases; now, it looked like locusts had been by. Catcher in the Rye—two copies left. 1984—zip. Brave New World—zip. A handful of Shakespeare (I mostly stock the Pelican and Signet editions, I find them all over the place). Fahrenheit 451—gone. A few copies of Huckleberry Finn (gutsy teachers). Cliffs Notes and Monarch Notes—stripped.

After lunch, I was pooped. I staggered (well, waddled) to the office and stretched out for a nap.

No such luck.

I couldn't toss and turn (hell, I could barely move), but I wriggled, wraggled and just could not get comfortable. My back was killing me—it had been for a couple of months, despite hot showers and long massages by my excruciatingly considerate husband. But there's only so much you can do when you have an extra forty pounds smack in one area of your bod.

Ducky was all for me going home. "Honey, it's just an aching back. Same aching back I had last night. Same aching back I had night before last. And the week before last. And last month. It comes. It goes. We've become quite good friends over the past months. But if I go home, you know Mother will just hover over me every second."

"And drive you quietly out of your mind."

"Or not so quietly." I sucked in a breath.

"Cassandra! What is it?"

"Just a twinge. No biggie. Probably one of the vertebrae shifting. Again."

"Oh, my darling… I wish I could take this on for you…"

"Yeah, next time I'll marry a seahorse."

It was a slow day in the morgue. We chatted for a good long time; just listening to his voice is a good way to relax. It didn't take away the backache (I figured the kid was planting his or her feet at the bottom of my spine and doing long stretches to prepare for a 10K marathon), but it made it more bearable. Plus, I knew that when I got home that night there would be another lovely, long massage waiting for me. I married a talented man.

"Cassandra? Dear?" Ducky's voice was taut. "I want you to hang up the phone and have someone drive you to the hospital. I'll call Dr. Lester."

"Ducky, it's just a freaking backache—"

"Cassandra, I've been noting every time you breathe more concertedly, when you seem to be in more pain. Your 'it comes and goes' backache is well timed every five minutes. You're in labor!"

Valerie drove me over (she drives a Jeep—it was the only vehicle I wasn't afraid I'd get stuck in). By the time I arrived—oh, yeah, I was in labor. At least I waited until I got into the ER before my water broke (I'm sure Valerie was grateful, if nothing else).

"Don't push yet," the nurse counseled.

Yeah, right. "Don't tell me, tell the kid!" I retorted. A line from MacGyver popped out of my mouth. "The stork's comin' on a Lear jet!"

Ducky arrived at 2:12.

Dr. Lester arrived at 2:15.

Weighing in at eight-six-and-a-quarter and a whopping twenty-two inches (a fighting chance of being taller than her parents!) Alexandra Caitlin Mallard arrived at 2:18. I thought it was very kind of her to wait for the full cast to be assembled before putting in her appearance.