It was just six hours from midnight, from the infamous ball drop, from a New Year’s kiss, from the start of something new. We had company at our house, but my body didn’t care. Instead, I often excused myself to nervously pace the hallway and bedroom floor, timing my contractions to four to five minutes.

We joked about a New Year’s baby and our faces plastered on the front page of our local paper. By eight o’clock, the timing entered the two to three minute arena, and after a quick call to Labor and Delivery, our guests were wishing us the best as I grabbed our hospital bag.

I was scared but also excited and the magic of, we “are going to have a baby” floated in the air.

The car ride to the hospital was quiet. I squeezed my husband’s hand and breathed through each contraction feeling a sense of Déjà vu.

It was exactly one year ago, minus one day that my husband and I made that same drive. We drove along the same highway, passed the same winding river, took the same exit, and anxiously pulled into the same ER.

One year prior, the car was just as quiet, our hands locked together in a similar manner, and I breathed heavy but this time fear was the emotion.

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