I didn't think
she'd take me seriously. Then again, I was pretty
sure she was physically incapable of granting my
request. I should have known better. After all,
this was the same woman who spray-painted a cat's
ass to ensure its adoption; this was my clever
sister, who once magically convinced me to dress
as a snow fairy and read storybooks to a bunch
of doctors' kids for hours on end. "Hold it in,
Jane," I'd said, watching through the window as
cotton-ball--sized puffs of snow floated to the
ground 3000 miles away from her. "I want to be
in town when this baby is born. So think like a
rabbit and don't
let go until I get back." Jane promised to
do her best, but not for my sake -- she needed
time to prepare for baby number two. At
the time of my request, Jane was "three centimeters
dilated." If you don't know what that means, it's
probably for the best. Just think of it as "The
garage door is partially open." When I returned
to town, Jane's "garage door" had opened a few
centimeters more, reaching the halfway mark. On
Monday, Jane's doctor told her not to venture too
far from the hospital and said she'd be surprised
if Jane made it through the weekend.
Tuesday came and Jane offered to take me to lunch. She didn't tell me we'd be going to Chuck E. Fucking Cheese's, or that she'd get a great big kick watching me chase her three-year-old through the bright, loudly bleeping gauntlet, but I didn't mind as much as she thought I would. The place was nearly empty and my niece was star struck by the giant animatronic mouse. Sure, we were frightened by the yellow hair and fuchsia talons of a few deep-cleavaged Vegas mommies, and every surface was probably coated in kiddie germs and fecal matter, but upbeat attitudes and a bottle of Purell ensured our fun.
Jane had finally tied up all those loose ends, and she was ready to meet her new family member. Unfortunately for her, the itty bitty body in her belly had plans of its own. Jane was not worried -- she had the kid's room number and knew how to send a wake-up call. When she'd wanted Bella to arrive before the hectic Thanksgiving holiday, Jane spent a full day power shopping at Fashion Valley with her friend Marissa pacing her and then went home and ate a large portion of Simon's spicy chili con carne. Sure enough, after one massive contraction, a phone call, lies about how many contractions she'd had and for how long, she arrived at the hospital with her garage door open almost all the way and just enough time to have drugs injected into her spine before Bella came tumbling into the world.
Now, with a three-year-old in tow, it's not as easy to power shop, so Jane resorted to power walking around her neighborhood (apparently, when trying to coax a little one from your loins, assigning the word "power" to your physical activity of choice is imperative). A few blocks away from Jane's house, we saw a woman pushing a stroller across the broad street. She smiled our way and then, holding her hand a few feet above her stomach to indicate Jane's impressive paunch, she shouted, "How long?"
"I'm five centimeters dilated and 70 percent effaced! " Jane yelled back to the woman and everyone else within the same zip code. The woman rewarded this graphic declaration by spurting a series of "Wow"s and "My God"s before she finally ended with, "Then it's any minute. It's now! Good luck!" and continued on her way.
I quickly dismissed the notion of asking Jane to explain the term, "effaced." As someone who gets grossed out by her own saliva, I'd had quite enough biology talk for one day. That night and the following, I was on baby watch -- if Jane went into full-blown labor, I would be at her house in 15 minutes to keep an eye on a sleeping Bella so that Simon could take his wife to the hospital.
My phone rang early Thursday morning. When I picked up the receiver, I heard, "Still five centimeters, 70 percent effaced, I'm not in labor, want to go to Target?" Sick of being asked the same question at the beginning of every phone conversation, Jane had taken to blurting out her status before even saying hello.
I agreed to join her, but first I had to look up that term Jane kept repeating. I assumed it was akin to the baby saying, "I just need to put on my socks and shoes and then I'm out the door." In this case, the dictionary was no help, as it defined "effaced" as meaning either "to rub away," or "someone who is shy." A quick Google search turned up something about the cervix thinning and shrinking. Hmm , rubbed away and shy.
