Emma is now eight weeks old, an age we can hardly believe. I have always found that life's pace ebbs and flows; sometimes it feels as if the week/month/year will never end, and other times "yesterday" was weeks past. The kind folks at my last job wished me well when I left, so much so that I felt bad for leaving them, and a great many of them advised me to enjoy my time with Emma because she will grow up fast.

A baby, when hungry, will cry. A new mom, upon hearing this cry, will try to rectify the solution. Usually this involves waking up, contending with an IV, struggling with the snaps on some unfamiliar hospital gown, staring at the thing that just fell out of her gown, wondering whose it is because it looks so terribly unfamiliar, and then . . . cramming the baby's head into what is suspected to be a breast and hope all goes well so mom can go back to sleep. They tell you that both mom and baby need to learn to nurse.

My pastor and I meet on Thursday evenings to talk ministry and get to know one another; eventually I will be more involved in the church's ministries, maybe even doing some preaching. The Thursday before Emma's birth I gave Holly a good-bye kiss and drove to my meeting. When I came home forty minutes later I looked at Holly and remarked that Emma had dropped. Holly tried to quietly dismiss it, but I insisted she had dropped, which I proved by feeling her belly and pointed out that the top was like pudding, and not a hard knot like it had been.

The full story of how Emma greeted the world and her first day of firsts will come later, when I get a chance to sleep, collect my thoughts, and stop letting Emma take naps on my chest. This is the Reader's Digest version of the event, but for an even shorter version I have one word to sum it all up: OUCH!

Holly went into labor this morning at 2:30AM. I won't argue with her when she says it's labor; I figure she's the better expert than I am, and she knows its different than a Braxton-Hicks. I had to get up around 4AM to answer the call of nature and she quietly told me, "I don't think you have to go to work today." It's funny how a few simple words barely whispered can shock a poor sleep-deprived man into sudden wakefulness; I couldn't go to sleep after that, and believe me, I tried.

Holly went to the doctor yesterday and found out she is already two centimeters dilated and 70% effaced. No labor yet, and if I understanding correctly she could still go a couple of weeks like this, but the doctor said she expected to see us by this weekend to deliver our baby. The poor thing is tired, very tired, but since she is on leave she is at home resting and napping. At least one of us is getting some sleep, as I'm having a hard time (as usual) getting to sleep at nights.

Holly and I have been going non-stop for the past two months, doing our best to get our house and our lives ready for Emma's introduction into this world, and there's still more to be done. A part of me laughs at the nice sentiment of letting projects die that all the pregnancy books and birthing classes offer, because some of it is not even optional. The nursery is mostly done, but there still are some decorations to be attended to, a few pieces of trim to be tacked on, and some closet doors to be painted and installed.

Yesterday is still hanging around my neck like an albatross. The depression is dulled a bit, but the excitement is quite dead. Poor kid; I went from patting Holly's tummy all the time and talking to the little thing to completely ignoring it. I hope that will change.

There is one point I forgot to make last night, in our defense and by way of explanation of my reaction. We have been trying for months to get pregnant, and every month I would do a rough calculation to ensure that we were still ready; every calculation said it would be tight, but manageable. The funny thing about rough calculations is they are rough. Last night I did a more thorough job and found that it will be tight to the point of unreasonability. The only way to make things work is to drop health insurance, and the main reason we had it in the first place was to pay for the birth of our children; to drop the insurance means postponing our second child, possibly beyond our desires.

The baby is fine, as far as we know, growing in Holly's womb, ignorant of the turmoil just outside its cozy home, turmoil it serves as the catalyst to. All the joy and excitement of having a baby has been sucked away from me, quite possibly permanently. I would love to be a bit melodramatic, it's always a bit fun and has this great "pity me" feel to it, but it will serve no good end, thus I will be open, honest, and frank.

I re-calculated our budget, this time without Holly's income, and it is a bleak, desolate, depressing picture of despair. I want to run; I want to run, hide, disappear, and never look back nor be found again. The financial Hell-hole Holly and I only recently climbed out of looms again in our near future, only this time we cannot point to a sudden lay-off as the cause; this time we'll have to willingly jump into it . . . for an indefinite period of time. The worst part is I have not yet figured out how much the baby will cost us per month. I've heard estimates but I don't trust them. I have only figured out what our utilities, groceries, loan payments, and three "luxury" services will cost us, and this alone pushes the limit of my salary.

It's official and confirmed by the doctor's blood test: we are pregnant! Sometime in June we should bring home a little bundle of stress, worry, "innocence", and a tax-break. Am I excited? You bet! Am I nervous? You bet! Am I scared? You bet! Would I do it all over again? You bet!

More news to come as it develops. Eegads. I'm going to be a father!