The way I seen it... that is to say, I saw it.

Wait, what the hell just happened? I thought I had a few more weeks of freedom, all the while listening to Amanda complain of cankles as I marveled at how well she still managed to get around and be highly functional. And for someone who was just coming to term, she sure wasn't terribly big. She still didn't even look pregnant from behind.

And yes, we had plans that weren't to be. Amanda neglected to mention she didn't even get to keep her appointment to get her hair did this week. And even as I type, our good friend Scott Chasolen is taking the stage for his first SC3 show (with many guests, he advertised) of the new year. As it is, I feel very fortunate that my best friend Kenny talked me into going to see Umphrey's McGee in Times Square last Friday night. Not only was it a surprisingly excellent night of music (like Cream, Zeppelin, Faces? Try London Souls, the night's opening act), complete with spot-on, left-field cover by UM (Lionel's "All Night Long" anyone?), but it also turned out to be a final hurrah of a night out before my life changed forever.

I took advantage of Kenny's presence on Saturday afternoon to finally move our damaged loveseat out to the curb to make room for the mechanical baby swing. His presence would prove to be very valuable as events took their unexpected turn late that evening and into the next day.

Amanda was so exceedingly calm (especially for her) when she woke me up shortly before 4:00am. Her almost surreal calm and apparent reluctance to admit that her water had really broken meant that it didn't fully register what it implied when she'd said, "Zac, I think we need to go to the hospital." She successfully lulled me into thinking we were truly making the trip more as a precaution than anything. It was this rationale that made me think it wasn't worth waking Kenny to let him know we were leaving. Should it be necessary ("this is three weeks early!!"), he could call when he woke up to an unpeopled house, but chances are we'd be back before he got up. Yes, walking out the door, I actually thought this.

I finally began to get an inkling that something was actually up when Amanda spoke with the admitting nurse at the ER. As earlier chronicled, she argued that she didn't need a wheelchair. Having been so duped into complacency, I don't think we even talked contractions on the drive into Manhattan. So when the nurse asked her to rate her current level of pain on the 1-10 scale, my dumbass, expecting a zero or one, was taken aback by her response of three to four. It wasn't until we were upstairs in the initial exam room a half hour later when the resident officially confirmed that Amanda's water had indeed broken and that she was in fact 2-3cm dilated already that it hit me: "Holy shit, this is happening."

Officially admitted into Labor and Delivery, we then of course were conditioned to believe we were in for a long haul. This is why I didn't think it was too awful of me that I succumbed to my body's insistent reminder that I'd only gotten two hours of sleep. I will admit that as I drifted off in the chair next to the bed at 9:00-ish and heard that Amanda would be getting the epidural (hadn't she just asked for something mild?), I was drowsily concerned that a) if she needed the heavy stuff now, her threshold for pain was even lower than I'd thought and b) if we were truly here until possibly into Monday, the epidural would wear off before shit got serious. I didn't like that combination, and yet I dozed. I know; I'm awful. In retrospect, I found out that if I'd voiced these concerns out loud, I may have lost my eyebrows in the fire that sprang from Amanda's mouth, but such was my sleep-addled haze.

I wasn't out long before I was rousted and ousted for the administering of the epidural. I guess expectant fathers have historically not taken well the sight of an 18-gauge needle going into their significant others' spines. Having nowhere to go, I didn't stray far from the open door. That was rough. Believe it or not, those were the worst cries of pain to come from Amanda for the duration of the morning. I agonized and ached for her, but I didn't know what good rushing back in to the room was going to do. Of course, the upshot of that pain was that from that point on, to inelegantly quote a big, fat junkie dealer from the movie Rush, Amanda was more or less "floating on a cloud of titties," albeit itchy titties. (runner-up: "Pretty soon, you'll be feelin' all unnecessary.")

The next two-plus hours totally flew in the face of the scenario the resident and nurses had set us up to expect. Contractions were building steadily; dilation was seemingly expanding exponentially. The next thing I knew, Amanda's OB had finally arrived. If Amanda had been on the bottom of her list to expect a late-night call, below all the dues and overdues, I wonder if she was even more surprised to arrive at 11:30 to find that it was indeed already go-time. I barely had time to text immediate family that pushing was set to begin before we (we?) were doing it.

I wonder if it just weren't the luck of default by position from where I'd been standing at her bedside the past hour, but as Amanda began to push, I was given the responsibility of holding up her right leg. I was so impressed with her initial efforts and by just how utterly quickly events were unfolding before my eyes (was that a hairy head already?) that I at first forgot to be the supportive husband, coaching and praising the push. Thankfully (and obviously), my encouraging efforts were the difference maker as I found my voice, and the air in the delivery room took on an even more accelerated and rarified quality.

The former half of the preceding sentence: hogwash; the latter, far from it. Dr. Brill gave new instructions to her team quickly, firmly, and perhaps even a bit furtively, and in my avid sideline ignorance, I knew we were at a moment of truth. This next push was going to be the one; had to be the one. Turns out, every time Amanda pushed, the baby's heart rate was plummeting, meaning the umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck. And damn if Dr. Brill and her team didn't show just why they make the big bucks, acting with assured and smooth precision to safely deliver my daughter with a vacuum-assisted final push.

This semi-dodgy scenario meant that I wasn't going to be the one to cut the cord, but quite frankly, I don't care, and it didn't even occur to me at the time. All I knew and all that mattered was that our little (and hoo, I mean little) Lorraina Marie had been safely ushered into this world. Through some mystical metaphysical property, the swelling love and bursting pride I felt for Amanda had grown exponentially several times over in the space of minutes, while at the same time expanding across to this new soul that was the ensuing result of our love for each other. As I gazed lovingly into my exhausted wife's eyes, we both broke into tears of elation as we simultaneously heard our daughter's first defiant cries of life.

To be continued...