wump, wump, wump, wump

It's just after midnight, April 16th. I'm in room 19 of a large government
building in Britain, staring at a machine churning out a long sheet of graph paper.

wump, wump, wump, wump

Like a seismologist waiting eagerly for the next shift in the tectonic plates, I count the
squares between the peaks. 10 minutes, 8 minutes, 7 minutes.

wump, wump, wump, wump

I decide to get myself a drink of water. On the way to the fountain, I hear a scream and a
whimper emanate from the room next door. Cup in hand, I pass by 20 seconds later to hear a quieter,
but equally determined cry from what seems like a much smaller pair of lungs. Back in room 19,
I turn down the volume on the machine.

wump, wump, wump, wump

Energy never disappears, it just changes its form and finds a new way to make you aware of it. A moment
is a point on a vector that travels in the direction set for it by the energy from the
bodies that combine to influence it. After nine years of moments - the time that has passed since I first met my wife - I'm made aware of it by the speaker
at the back of the machine.

wump, wump, wump, wukkkkkkchchch

The baby has moved again and we've lost the trace. Enter Marie, the midwife. A quick examination
proves we have no progress and no dilation. A relief since Sarah was only 36 weeks, a delivery
would have been a little premature.

That was nearly two years ago; four weeks of annoying Braxton Hicks contractions later and the energy reached the end of this particular vector and headed off in a new direction as a beautiful baby girl. It sleeps as I type, room 19 long since forgotten.

For all those of you who believe that there is a balance in your world that provides a new life as
another is taken from us - I'm here to prove you wrong. On the way to the hospital I ran over a frog.
There was no baby. Somebody tip the scales back the other way.