Let's see, the youngest will turn 24 in June, so I guess that's it. It was in the summer of 1982, and to tell you the truth I don't really remember all that much about it except that it was pretty painful. Thank goodness we went through all those Lamaze classes--I thought I was going to pass out from the pain my wife inflicted when she squeezed my hand during her contractions.

We never did have the big build-up before the trip to the hospital. We didn't have to time the length and frequency of her contractions--her water broke both times, and we were on our way.

So that's why it was all new to me when George and Michelle showed up at our door on a stormy Monday night a couple of weeks ago. They were supposed to stop by for dinner, but when they walked through the front door with Michelle breathing deeply and George checking his watch, we knew that we'd have to eat fast or else set an extra plate for dessert.

Michelle is one of Natalie's three daughters, and she was about to give birth to our sixth grandchild. I was just hoping the birth wasn't going to take place in our dining room.

"Yeah, she started her contractions on the way over here," George announced as they walked in the door.

"Well, don't you think it might be a good idea to turn around and head to the hospital?" I asked.

"No, they told us to wait until they were 2 1/2 minutes apart and about 90 seconds long," he said calmly. I'm glad one of us was calm.

"Uh, what should I do ... boil some water?" I asked.

"Well, I don't think we'll need any boiling water, unless you're steaming the vegetables," he laughed. "I guess you could just go ahead and barbecue the steaks."

Michelle and George were amazingly calm. Natalie and I were not. Let's see, Natalie and I have six children between us, and this is George and Michelle's first. Hmmm?

We figured they must have known what they were doing, so we just went about the business of preparing dinner, and they went about the business of making a baby ... well, you know what I mean.

Despite the storm, I'd promised barbecued steaks, so I braved the weather to grill the filets. We wanted them a nice pink inside, so timing was critical. You may not believe it, but it's the first time I've ever timed steaks by an expectant mother's contractions.

That, though, was getting difficult, because those pains were coming closer together and lasting longer. Three and a half minutes apart, 50 seconds long ... three minutes and 15 seconds apart, but now 60 seconds long ... three minutes apart, 70 seconds long.

That's when I figured I'd better say something.

"You know, these are pretty close together now; are you sure you don't want to leave for the hospital now?" I suggested.

"Well, I really don't think we're quite ready yet," said George. "They told us 2 1/2 minutes apart and 90 seconds, so we have a ways to go. They don't want us to get there too early. Could someone pass the steak sauce?"

Steak sauce? Too early? If they waited much longer I was afraid I was going to be delivering that baby right there on the kitchen table. My experience? Well, I watched both of my sons being delivered, and I'm the one who always cleans out the turkey on Thanksgiving.

Two minutes and 45 seconds apart, 80 seconds long. That's it; I had to go with my best argument.

"You know, with the weather the way it is, you might find a tree across the road, there may be a flooded intersection, there may be an accident on the freeway. And you may get stuck taking a detour on your way to the hospital," I cautioned. "And if you do, you may find yourself delivering that baby yourself ... in the backseat of your BMW."

"But those seats are genuine leather!" George gasped.

"That's right," I said, thinking, "Better your leather seats than my leather couch!"

"OK, Michelle, I think it's time we get to the hospital," he told Michelle through hee-hee breaths.

With that I was breathing a little easier, because we all left for the hospital. Eight and a half hours later, little Bradley Dean Wilson was born.

Hmmm ... turns out we had plenty of time left after all. Who knew?

Want to talk? Give me a call at 408.354.3110, or write to dsparrer@community-newspapers.com.