I open the paper bag and pull out a book with thick pages and a familiar cover with a little white bunny painted in watercolours.
“Oh my gosh, you found it.”
He walks over to me as I stare down at the book, the same one my mom used to read to me every night when I was a kid.
“I had them special order it. I figured you might want to continue the tradition your mom started.”
It’s hard to believe I ever thought, even for a second, that Brady wasn’t a good man. That he wouldn’t be an incredible, loving, committed father and partner. My gut instincts all those months ago, in a dark bar in Manitoba, were spot-on.
He is a good man. The kind a woman can trust. And I trust him with far more than just one night. I trust him with my forever.
34
SAGE
It really isa cruel twist of fate that in the final weeks leading up to a baby’s arrival, the mother is unable to sleep for more than an hour or two without having to get up and pee or just change position.
At least, that’s my reality.
As much as I’ve missed him these last few days, I’m glad Brady is out of town. I’ve been feeling incredibly guilty for disrupting his sleep, to say nothing of the grumpy mood that overtakes me at some point almost every day when I’m fed up with all the discomfort of late-stage pregnancy. I even offered to move back into the other bedroom, the one that now has a bright white crib, a bookcase full of toys and books, and a dresser filled with teeny-tiny clothing and diapers.
But he’s refused to let me leave his—our—bed. And truthfully, what little sleep I do get tends to be best when I’m in his arms.
Last night was quite possibly the worst night I’ve had so far this pregnancy. No matter what I did, or whatposition I tried, I could not get comfortable. My stomach feels tight, the pressure on my pelvis is unbearable at times, and the lower back pain has me close to tears if I move wrong. If I hadn’t been reassured by Enid when I called her yesterday that all of this is normal for the late stages of pregnancy, I’d be a lot more worried. Especially with Brady out of the country for two more days.
I may not be worried, but I am grumpy. And tired.
After dragging myself out of bed and standing under a warm shower in hopes of waking up, or easing the back pain, I shuffle back into the bedroom. The idea of getting dressed and going anywhere is too much for me to consider right now, so instead, I pull on a pair of Brady’s shorts and a sports bra. It might be September, but this has been one of those lingering summers, when the days can still get warm. To say nothing of the furnace I have burning inside of me, courtesy of my daughter.
I take my cup of coffee out onto the patio and immediately shiver in the brisk morning air.
“Okay, fine. Not so warm yet,” I grumble, going back inside. So much for my plan to sit outside with my coffee and try to enjoy a quiet morning. My stomach chooses that moment to contract again, this one far more painful than any of the practice ones I’ve had so far.
“Damn,” I gasp, bending over and holding my stomach with my free hand. After what feels like an eternity, it passes. I take a few deep breaths before straightening. Whatever that was, it seems to have passed.
“If real labour is gonna be even worse, maybe I do want the drugs,” I mutter to myself, rubbing my stomach as I walk to the kitchen to get some water. I drink itdown, still focusing on breathing, but now it’s for my nerves, not the pain.
That was intense.
I’m in the bedroom closet looking for a sweater so I can go back outside with my coffee when another contraction hits. This one is just as strong as the last.
I struggle to breathe through it, trying to ignore the panic threatening to choke me. These are just Braxton Hicks. Totally normal.Right?It subsides, but my heart is racing now. Some deep instinct rising inside of me is clamouring for my attention, telling me this is not normal.
Or rather, not practice.
But that can’t be. I mentally do some math. I’m still close to three weeks from my due date. Sure, I know babies come early, but I’ve had no signs of that happening. At my last midwife appointment, Enid seemed confident I’d go to the end.
Sudden pressure on my bladder has me abandoning the hunt for a sweater and walking swiftly into the bathroom. I take care of business, then stare down at the pink smear on the toilet paper.
“Oh no,” I moan. “No, no, no, no!”
I stagger back into the bedroom where I left my phone. I manage to dial Fiona, then pray another contraction holds off until I can talk to her.
“Sage? Hey, what’s up?”
“Fi, I think I might be in labour,” I pant out, just as another swell of pain starts. “Oh God. Can you come over?”
“What? Yes. Oh my God, of course. I’m on my way. Call Enid!”
