I made some breakfast and coffee

If your only experience with childbirth, besides being born yourself, is what is shown on movies and television shows, you might be surprised to find that the rupture of the amniotic sac is not necessary for labor to begin. In fact, some babies are born in relatively intact amniotic sacs. When this happens, it is referred to as a "Caul Birth," and in some traditions the baby is considered a prophet if they get to spend a few minutes pretending they haven't been born yet.

M is not a caul birth. L's water breaks at the usual time, which is somewhere between active labor and the vaguely and menacingly named "Transition." For me, this is the first "scary part," because, other than the aggressive timeline, this is the first complication in the delivery. Instead of seeing pure amniotic fluid, which looks like hefeweizen, we see amniotic fluid with meconium in it, which looks like hefeweizen with flecks of tar in it. This complication puts M at a slight, but real, risk for "Meconium Respiration Disorder," so named because "Poop Lung" is presumably already taken by a Scandinavian Metal band.

By this point, my sister has joined us at the hospital to be another set of hands and to get the things I've neglected to throw in the birth bag.

"What'd I miss?" my sister, J, hands me a cup of hospital coffee. 

"Water broke, but there's meconium in it." I sip the coffee, which manages to taste like airplane coffee even without the deadening of the senses afforded by a pressurized cabin.

"What's that?"

"Baby poop."

"He pooped his sac? How did he do that? He hasn't eaten anything yet?"

"He ate his fur. He had a downy coat of fur that he shed about a month and a half ago and he ate it. That's meconium. It's sterile."

My sister looks wistful "I wish they were born with the fur."

"Yeah, me too. It seems like a real missed opportunity."

"Help, or get out." This is the catch-phrase of our new mid-wife who took over midway through delivery. She is brusque and rude with a bad habit of barking orders, but so far she has held the line with me on keeping L off an IV drip, and I suspect she is our only hope of keeping M's umbilical cord connected for longer than hospital regulations.

"What can I do?" My sister and I ask in unison. 

There is much pointing to compensate for the fact that she seems to know none of our names:

"You (me,) walk mama over to the bed. You (J) run fresh water in the tub and get some ice chips."

L is now officially in transition. What this means is that her cervix, much like Optimus Prime, is transforming itself into its final and most useful form. Unlike Optimus Prime, this causes intense contractions that come so close together it feels like one long contraction. This stage is called transition, because calling it "The Worst Pain of Your Life ®" smacks of the unprofessional.

I help L to the bed and nervously move closer to the mid-wife. "So, is this meconium going to mess with our birth plan? We wanted the umbilical cord connected and skin to skin contact for at least five minutes."

"It depends." The mid-wife snaps her attention back to L and her breathing.

"On what does it depend? This is really important to us. If the team has to flush out his nose and mouth, can they do it with the cord attached? I understand what they need to do and why, but I don't see why it has to change our plans."

"No, they will not leave the cord connected if they have to take him. That won't happen."

The mid-wife studies L's cervix. 

"It's push time. Everybody but mom and dad need to clear out!"