German Baby Roulette

Hello! Today is Herr R’s father’s funeral, and I’m dilated to 2.5 centimeters (according to the nice ladies at the hospital last night, who said that getting to the 3-cm ‘official labor’ stage could take an hour or a week and that I was welcome to come back any time.) Let’s play:

What Are the Odds?

…seriously, though, what are the odds, exactly?

How to Play:
Pretend that you are me and/or Herr R, and choose from the following options:

a.) Herr R stays in Hamburg, missing the chance to put his father to rest, and watchs me for contractions all day… and the next and the next and maybe even the next.
b.) Herr R stays in Hamburg, Betsy goes into labor, we are both sad about him missing the opportunity to celebrate his father’s life surrounded by the people who knew him best.
c.) Herr R makes the 4.5 hour train trip to the funeral with plans to turn right around and come home again immediately afterwards. His exhausted 11:00 pm return coincides with his daughter’s arrival and his wife’s last moments of sanity, as holding it together while giving birth in Germany without the co-creator present (with his combined translation/emotional support/translation/birth coach/did-I-mention-translation duties) actually turned out to be an unreasonable expectation.
d.) Tobias attends the funeral, gets a little sleep on the train home; Betsy spends the day drinking tea with thoughtfully concerned friends and trying to figure out what to do with the 9 cups of mincemeat she made before she realized that the recipe for those charming mini mincemeat pies she was planning for the afternoon’s entertainment only calls for a teaspoon of filling per pie.

Did you choose D? Me, too! It’s 9:30 in the morning now. Herr R is probably just reaching his mother’s house, well in time for the funeral, and I’m thinking that a muffin-sized maxi-mini pie with a tiny little lattice crust could hold as much as a third of a cup of mincemeat. According to my calculations, Herr R shold be arriving home just in time for the 27th pie to come out of the oven. This assumes, of course, that standing on my head to avoid an untimely delivery does not preclude the weaving of lattice tops…

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