Published June 12, 2007, by The Charlotte Observer.
All rights reserved.

By SCOTT FOWLER

My wife had talked me into this baby. I remembered this on the way to the hospital as she gasped in pain in the seat beside me, on the way to deliver our fourth child.

"We waited too late this time!" said Elise, gripping the armrests tightly. And I wondered.

She was talking about a matter of minutes -- that we should have headed toward the hospital and its promise of a blessed epidural an hour ago. I was thinking bigger. We were both in our early 40s and about to embark on life's most frantic, rewarding and exhausting adventure once again.

We have three boys -- ages 9, 6 and 3. The chaos in our house already exceeds all recommended daily allowances. Like most parents, we love our kids deeply and messily. We have no supernanny, no extra bedroom and, very often, no idea what we're doing.

This fourth child was our final chance at a girl. We had not found out the sex of any of our children before their birth and this one, too, would be a surprise. We would be happy in either case. I quietly hoped for a girl.

"I'll hurry," I told my wife, and then was silent again. I knew from experience that to risk small talk in this situation was to risk a beheading. My wife is a lovely and calm woman under almost all circumstances, but during labor and delivery, she could barely tolerate my presence. A few times during earlier pregnancies I had cheered her on with a "You're doing great, honey!" and was rewarded with a glare that would melt Greenland.

Friends and family had greeted the news of Elise's pregnancy the first three times with delight. When we warily broke the news about Baby No. 4, the most common response was a shrug followed by: "Haven't you figured out what is causing this yet?"

The average American family has 1.8 children under age 18, according to the latest government figures. We were sprinting toward non-conformity in a society where the average restaurant also has no table designed to comfortably fit six people and a stroller.

We picked out names anyway -- Reynolds for a boy, Georgia for a girl. Elise survived the pregnancy with stranger cravings than ever -- almond-butter-and-pickle sandwiches for breakfast, sushi for dinner.

It was after midnight on a warm May evening when we left for the hospital. I drove up to a traffic signal I knew from experience could result in a 90-second wait if you caught it wrong, and we did. The intersection was deserted. I started to run the red light.

"Stop!!" Elise screamed.

Startled, I slammed on the brakes, throwing us forward.

"Ow!" she yelled, doubling over in pain. "Don't you dare get us pulled over!"

For the rest of the trip, I drove like Morgan Freeman in "Driving Miss Daisy." Nice and slow.

We made it to Carolinas Medical Center. She got her epidural and excellent care from a battery of nurses. And the baby, who had been in no rush for almost 41 weeks, suddenly decided to hurry.

The main nurse had to hold the baby's head inside Elise's body for a few moments while the doctor made it back into the room. But he got there and calmly assumed the baby-catching position.

"Scott," the doctor said, "when this baby comes out, I want you to tell your wife what it is."

"Um, OK," I said.

And on cue, the baby scooted out -- a gorgeous, wrinkled space alien covered with slime.

The doctor, the nurse and my wife all looked expectantly at me.
"It's a ... uh. ..."

I was distracted by the umbilical cord. It was huge! Had our other children's been that long? I also hesitated because I knew if I made the wrong call, it would become a family legend.

"Scott?" the doctor asked.

The baby was crying. He shifted it into a different position.
I took a close look. Then another.

"It's a girl," I said, my heart swelling. "It's a girl!"