Roughly three hours before my first labor contraction hit, The Boss had a precognitive existential crisis. She was sitting on our bed as The Partner and I nested our way through a much needed pick-up of the bedroom. Maybe it was witnessing this act of cleaning that shocked her system--so foreign was the idea of seeing her mother with a duster in one hand and vacuum in the other--more than intuition of the imminent arrival of a sibling, but whatever the cause, it's safe to say that The Boss freaked out.
"It's not fun being bigger and older!" she shrieked suddenly. It came out of nowhere. She rose to her feet on the semi-firm mattress and threw herself prone. "It's not fun!" She was screaming again, and rising again. Then she threw herself back. She was crying.
"What's wrong, honey?" The Partner and I both climbed onto the bed with her, patting and consoling and wondering. We had hazy notions of what troubled her, but we wanted her to articulate it. We wanted to say the right things back.
She probably wanted words, too. But all that came out was I don't know.