Naturally it would happen when tens of thousands of extra people are crammed into Denver for the Democratic National Convention. Monday evening, we got the call that Carey, the 15-year old girl who is being gracious enough to allow Annie and I to be parents to the little girl growing inside of her, was going into labor. At 4:30 this morning–a full eight and a half hours later–the hospital sent us all home; still no baby. And so we wait. Labor still at hand. Fluries of text messages (a phenomenon I hadn’t fully appreciated until now) have been zipping back and forth through space to anxious friends and family. Perhaps it’s significant that this baby seems to have chosen to arrive the same week as Barak Obama. Perhaps it says something about abortion, or adoption, or hope, or all three. I don’t know. As all of Denver bustles with activity, with messianic goggles pushed full tilt toward the man who may be the next president, I feel like I’m moving in slow motion–gazing at a 15-year old, whom the world–in many ways–forgot amidst the glamour and the spotlights all aglow in Denver.
I don’t know. I just hope traffic lets up when the moment comes…
