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Pravin Kumar
Age: 60 Zodiac: 
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 Posted: Sun Mar 30, 2008 1:00 pm |
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Thanks for babysitting.” I puffed a breath at the bangs plastering my forehead, damp from exertion and the mid-July heat wave.
“What did the doctor say?” my neighbor asked.
“He told me I need sleep, and he can’t prescribe anything this late in the pregnancy and . . . he suggested wine.” I rolled my eyes at the absurdity. “Can’t you just see me bellying up to the bar and requesting something that would knock me out?”
With a hearty laugh Joyce patted my two-weeks-overdue girth. “Well, maybe you should.”
“I wouldn’t even know what to ask for.” I shrugged. We both knew I had never imbibed. Grabbing my three-year-old with one hand, and my toddler with the other, I waddled to our house at the end of the cul de sac. Mere minutes later, the doorbell rang.
“Here. This’ll do the trick.” Joyce pressed a brown sack in my hands. “It’s fruity. You’ll like it.”
“Wine? But . . .”
“Doctor’s orders,” she insisted, before she turned and fled.
With some hesitancy—and much curiosity—I placed the gift on the kitchen counter and pulled out the partially empty bottle. It did smell fruity, like peaches, perhaps. I set it aside and, squaring my shoulders, faced the long evening ahead. With my husband working late that night, dinner and bedtime weighed heavily on my sagging shoulders.
After the kids were fed, bathed, pajamaed, story-booked, lullabied, and tucked, I collapsed in a hot, weary heap on the couch, too tired to care that I hadn’t eaten any supper.
What I wouldn’t give to have air conditioning . . . and one night of sound sleep, I thought. Just one.
In a sudden decision, I padded to the kitchen and uncorked the bottle. Reaching into the cupboard, I grabbed a slender juice glass. Tupperware. Pastel pink. An omen, I hoped, for having a girl. But, how much would it take to make me sleepy? I poured the glass halfway. Realizing it was an awfully skinny glass, I added a bit more.
“May as well fill it to the top,” I muttered.
I experimented with a sample sip and sputtered. It certainly smelled better than it tasted. So, pinching my nose to ease the onslaught of my senses, I tossed the entire contents to the back of my throat and choked it down in one foul swoop. Then I hid the evi . . . put the bottle in the back of the pantry. Norm would be home within the hour; I settled on the couch to watch a favorite show.
“Yum. Have you been baking pies?” my husband startled me awake.
Pies? In this heat? I giggled at the outlandish idea.
“How was your day?”
My day? I giggled because the question sounded funny.
“You ready to hit the sack?”
I giggled louder and longer, and I didn’t even know why.
That night I got the sleep the doctor had hoped for. A lovely, sound, comfortable, dreamless sleep . . . until even, rapid—hard—contractions tugged me awake.
“Honey, it’s time.” I elbowed Norm. “We need to get to the hospital.”
He flew into action. He knew the routine. Dress. Call the neighbor to babysit. Grab the suitcase.
I hesitated at the front door. “Go on and back the car out of the garage. I forgot something.”
In a wink, I’d lumbered to the kitchen, filled another tumbler with the fruity quaff, and tossed it to the back of my throat. This time, it slid down easier.
At the hospital, my doctor leaned over the bed and patted me on the wrist. “With your history of hard labors, I sure hope you got a bit of sleep tonight.”
Only a bit of sleep? I giggled at the outlandish idea. He sniffed and leaned in a bit closer. “It appears you took my advice.”
His advice? I giggled because he sounded funny.
“Well, let’s check you out.”
I giggled even louder and longer, and I didn’t care why.
Easiest labor I’d ever had. A girl. A peach of a baby girl.
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