After twenty-plus grueling hours at the hospital, I was told to go home because my labor was “not progressing.” I was tired of being poked and prodded, and was beyond exhausted, so even though I could not believe I was being sent home from the hospital yet again (this was the fourth time I had to go in with early labor), I was thrilled with the idea of glorious sleep.

My husband, Rich, and I arrived home around 1pm, and I collapsed into bed, dead to the world. I didn’t so much as move an eyelash till around 7pm, when I woke, annoyingly, to more contractions. I actually cried when I realized I was having contractions again, not out of pain but at the thought of having to go to the hospital yet again. I still had not fully recovered from the night before, and I really did not want to go in for round five. I woke my husband and told him I was going to try to relax in the shower. I was hoping this might slow or stop the contractions, and maybe we could save ourselves a trip.

I was in the shower for a matter of minutes when excruciatingly painful transitional contractions hit. Up until now, all the contractions had been just a tightening of my abdominal muscles with no pain (you can hate me if you like). But these contractions meant business! I was curled up in the shower, pounding on the wall in pain when Rich came in to check on me, wondering what all the noise was about. I yelled out through clenched teeth, “Call…9...1...1!”

You would think a man in this situation would listen to the woman giving birth, especially if she had given birth before and therefore knew that “this… is… IT!” But instead of calling 911, Rich, my loving husband and father of my children, called our Doula instead (who, ironically, had been hired to help things go as smoothly and naturally as possible). When she answered the phone and Rich informed her of the situation, she smartly remarked, “If she is asking for you to call 911, then CALL 911!”

Once Rich finally got the 911 operator on the phone, she asked him to check on me. It was about this time that I decided to give up on the shower idea. It was doing little to no good to help with the pain. He walked into the bathroom right as I lifted my leg to step over the tub and out of the shower. This was all it took. Just lifting my leg—no pushing required—had brought our baby into the crowning position. Our baby, who we later named Caleb, was about to enter this world! I had just enough time to look up at Rich and say, in astonishment, “He’s coming!”

Rich wisely threw the phone down and dove, like a baseball player sliding headfirst into home, between my feet, making a perfect catch as Caleb flew out of me, almost hitting the ground. He then picked up the phone and proudly announced, “I am holding my son.”

My contractions stopped temporarily, and I sat down on the only seat in our postage stamp-sized bathroom: the toilet. At this point, I would like to state that I have always been a very modest person, but with Rich the only one there to notice and me still in “birth mode,” I hardly noticed I was still stark naked and dripping wet from the shower. In fact, I wasn’t concentrating on anything except the adorable little bundle in the crook of my arm (now wrapped in warm towels, fresh from the dryer, per the 911 operator’s suggestion). So, I was puzzled when Rich started throwing random clothes at me, saying, “Put this on!”

Dumbfounded, I asked him, “Why?” Then a hoard of EMTs—male EMTs—came rushing into our house, most of them crammed in our teeny bathroom. Caleb was whisked away to one of the ambulances to be checked out. They discussed bringing me to the hospital right then, but I told them our second twin, who we later named Isaac, was ready to be born NOW!

With one quick check to make sure he was head first, I was given the green light, and with one little push, he was out and in one of the EMT’s hands. Both babies were given clean bills of health and all three of us, along with Rich, were loaded into just one of the ambulances. We were on our way to the hospital for our final visit. Along the drive, one of the EMTs was examining me when my abdomen made a strange movement, as it adjusted to no longer having two extra inhabitants. He took a small step back from me and asked, in shock and disbelief, “Are you sure you are not having three?”

Thankfully, his concerns were unwarranted, but I had a new problem. I still had no clothes and no shoes, not to mention no car. How in the world were we going to get back home?

Ann and her husband have lived in Auburn over sixteen years. They have three boys: Joshua, Caleb and Isaac. Rich still likes to brag about being listed as the delivering physician on the twins’ birth certificates.