A Surprise, Starting Thirty-Six Years Ago Today

I remember many details about February 12, 1982, thirty-six years ago today. It was my last day of work before I was scheduled to begin my maternity leave. I was due to have a baby about ten days later.

I finished a couple of projects that day, and late in the afternoon I cleaned off my desk. It was neater than it had been since I had started working two and a half years earlier. After all, I didn’t plan to return to the office for about three and a half months. I was scheduled to take the full three months of maternity leave my employer permitted at the time.

That evening, I walked out of the building with another woman from my department. “When do you think the baby is coming?” she asked. There was an office pool on the subject—whoever came closest to the date of the baby’s birth won, with length and weight breaking any ties. Guessing the right gender may have been a factor in the prize also, because we didn’t know the baby’s sex.

“Well, today is my grandmother’s birthday,” I said. “So I don’t want it to be today. I’d like the baby to have his or her own birthday. And tomorrow is the 13th—no Friday the 13th babies for me. Then comes Valentine’s Day. So I guess any time on the 15th or after is fine. In fact, then, the sooner the better.”

She laughed. “I hope it’s the 15th then,” she said, and we went our separate ways in the parking garage.

I’d been feeling miserable all week, hanging on to my planned activities by sheer grit. I weighed 30% more than my normal weight, and carried it all straight out front, as short women do. My back had been aching for days. I wasn’t sleeping well. I was ready for this to be over.

That evening at home, I felt even worse than I had through the week. Maybe it was because now there was nothing to focus on except the baby. I couldn’t eat, and in fact, I was sick to my stomach. Finally, I called my obstetrician’s emergency number, and they said to go to the hospital to be checked out. I was relieved to put someone else in charge of telling me what to do.

The maternity ward decided I was slightly dilated and they would keep me for observation. So they put me in a bed, but I convinced them not to put an IV in me yet—I hate needles. Hubby went home to get a good night’s rest.

Shortly after midnight, things got more interesting. Occasional contractions, which became more severe around dawn. Husband returned to the hospital, though he groused at the intrusion, because it was his Naval Reserve weekend, and I was making him skip a drill day.

But I didn’t care. By that time, I was in labor in earnest. Son was born at 12:21 pm on Saturday, February 13.

After my office learned of the blessed event, the woman I’d walked out with on Friday wrote me a note: “But, Theresa, why February 13?” she asked.

It really wasn’t up to me in the end. And on Valentine’s Day, the hospital put Baby Boy Hupp in a heart-decorated envelope.

While the new father went to his Sunday drill day.

My son has never cared that his birthday was on the 13th. In fact, I think he likes it when his birthday falls on Friday.

I don’t remember who won the office poll. But I got the main prize. Happy Birthday tomorrow, Son!

What dates are etched into your memory?