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them at all. The frying pan, for instance. My single immediate objective was a cup of coffee, and I decided to heat up the coffee left from the night before, rather than taking the time to make fresh; it seemed brilliantly logical to heat it in the frying pan because anyone knows that a broad shallow container will heat liquid faster than a tall narrow one like the coffeepot. I will not try to deny, however, that it looked funny.
    By the time the children came down everything seemed to be moving along handsomely; Laurie grimly got two glasses and filled them with fruit juice for Jannie and himself. He offered me one, but I had no desire to eat, or in fact to do anything which might upset my precarious balance between two and three children, or to interrupt my morning’s work for more than coffee, which I was still doggedly making in the frying pan. My husband came downstairs, sat in his usual place, said good-morning to the children, accepted the glass of fruit juice Laurie poured for him, and asked me brightly, “How do you feel?”
    â€œSplendid,” I said, making an enormous smile for all of them. “I’m doing wonderfully well.”
    â€œGood,” he said. “How soon do you think we ought to leave?”
    â€œAround noon, probably,” I said. “Everything is fine, really.”
    My husband asked politely, “May I help you with breakfast?”
    â€œNo, indeed,” I said. I stopped to catch my breath and smiled reassuringly. “I feel so well,” I said.
    â€œWould you be offended,” he said, still very politely, “if I took this egg out of my glass?”
    â€œCertainly not,” I said. “I’m sorry; I can’t think how it got there.”
    â€œIt’s nothing at all,” my husband said. “I was just thirsty.”
    They were all staring at me oddly, and I kept giving them my reassuring smile; I did feel spendid; my months of waiting were nearly over, my careful preparations had finally been brought to a purpose, tomorrow I would be wearing my yellow nightgown. “I’m so pleased,” I said.
    I was slightly dizzy, perhaps. And there were pains, but they were authentic ones, not the feeble imitations I had been dreaming up the past few weeks. I patted Laurie on the head. “Well,” I said, in the tone I had used perhaps five hundred times in the last months, “Well, do we want a little boy or a little boy?”
    â€œWon’t you sit down?” my husband said. He had the air of a man who expects that an explanation will somehow be given him for a series of extraordinary events in which he is unwillingly involved. “I think you ought to sit down,” he added urgently.
    It was about then that I realized that he was right. I ought to sit down. As a matter of fact, I ought to go to the hospital right now, immediately. I dropped my reassuring smile and the fork I had been carrying around with me.
    â€œI’d better hurry,” I said inadequately.
    My husband called the taxi and brought down my suitcase. The children were going to stay with friends, and one of the things we had planned to do was drop them off on our way to the hospital; now, however, I felt vitally that I had not the time. I began to talk fast.
    â€œYou’ll have to take care of the children,” I told my husband. “See that . . .” I stopped. I remember thinking with incredible clarity and speed. “See that they finish their breakfast,” I said. Pajamas on the line, I thought, school, cats, toothbrushes. Milkman. Overalls to be mended, laundry. “I ought to make a list,” I said vaguely. “Leave a note for the milkman tomorrow night. Soap, too. We need soap.”
    â€œYes, dear,” my husband kept saying. “Yes dear yes dear.”
    The taxi arrived and suddenly I was saying goodbye to the children. “See you later,” Laurie said casually. “Have a good