False Alarm

Last Saturday things got pretty wild around the ranch here in Omaha. I was set to play my fourth gig of the week and Karine was having contractions, like seven minutes apart, and Zeke had green snot streaming from his nose and he was not happy. To make matters worse, the Nebraska Cornhuskers were in the middle of breaking like two million hearts by dropping four guaranteed touchdown passes. Like, the ball is in your hands. Squeeze it. Touchdown.

We called the doctor's office and spoke with a nurse. She was nice. Very competent. She told us to monitor the contractions and hang in there and come on in if they didn't go away. The crucial question for us was this: would they try to stop the labor process if we went in? Would they give Karine the shot like they did last time, the one that made her heart beat fast? No, they would not, she said. It was go time. Which meant that we were in the early, early stages of some normal-type birth scenario, where you wait until the contractions are painful and like four minutes apart, then you head on in with your little bag full of slippers and Nerds candies and stuff.

So, I went ahead and went to my gig. With Karine's blessing. We remained in constant contact via cellular telephone, and I was ready to split in a jiffy should the need arise. It was pretty fun. How 'ya doing? -- the people at the bar asked. Pretty good, I said, I think my wife is going into labor with twins. That was pretty fun. I had some nice conversations start out that way. My musical partner was very excited, proud even. And then the Trans-Siberian Orchestra came into the restaurant. And they liked the music and left us an outrageous tip. So I'm glad that I went.

And then I got home and the contractions subsided and now we're just waiting patiently. Mostly.