At least, that was the plan. I called Eric before I left the library, and things snowballed from there. We got into the most inane argument over what I should make for dinner - he suggested broccoli, cauliflower, and pasta; I was of the opinion that such a meal would be quite odd - and suddenly I found myself hanging up on my husband. I have never hung up on anybody in my life, let alone for such a silly reason, so I stood there for a moment, just staring at the telephone and wondering what on earth I had done.

After a few mortified seconds, I grabbed the receiver and tried to call him back, but he wasn't accepting any calls. My head throbbed harder, and I found myself on the verge of tears. I sent off an apologetic email, and then left for home.

On the way there, though, I remembered with a guilty pang that the guinea pigs were out of hay, so I headed for the grocery store. This was my second mistake; I found myself standing in the middle of the soda aisle, looking at all the beverages that I shouldn't have and thinking about the fact that I haven't had anything besides water and orange juice for weeks, and I started to sob. I couldn't stop the tears, even after I ran headlong away from the impetus, so I gathered my purchases (including a hastily grabbed carton of grape juice) and split the scene as fast as I could.

At home I called Eric. The moment he said hello, the tears came again. He seemed quite surprised at the outburst, and even more confused when he asked why I was crying, and I said, "I don't know!" It was far, far worse than anything I've ever experienced in my worst premenstrual conditions; I wanted to curl up into a little ball on the floor and shake.

Of course, I was finally able to stop crying and pull myself together once more. Dinner was served, we went to choir practice, and I began to feel relief; my evening could only improve on my afternoon. And then we came home from choir, and I found a message on my answering machine, telling me that I'd missed the baby shower for another of the women in our online group. I hurriedly rushed to get to the chat room where we were to meet, but everybody had left.

I went to bed. If I was asleep, I reasoned, I would at least be unaware that my head was splitting right down the middle. This morning, the niggling remains of the headache are still with me, but we've been able to avoid the tears thus far.

Last week, when she called to chat, Rita asked, in passing, "Now, are your midwives part of a larger group, with doctors?" I said no, and then changed the subject. She didn't press the issue, but I knew that the matter wasn't settled. I could almost count the days until...

When I got home from work on Monday, Eric was on the phone. I heard him say, as I walked in the door, "These women have a combined seventy years worth of birth experience!" I began to chuckle. For the next half-hour, I listened to Eric's half of the conversation, as he brought up statistic after study, extolling the safety of homebirth and midwifery. I grew more and more proud as I listened to him; I knew that he'd been paying attention over the past three years that I've done my research, but I was amazed at how passionately he was putting forth our case.

After a bit, though, I began to be bothered. He was having to recite the same information over and over again; Rita was apparently not willing to believe him. His voice was getting louder, too, as his frustration level rose. Finally, when she began arguing that we should be in the hospital because this might be the only baby we could ever have, I reached my tolerance level. To imply that we are deliberately risking our child's life on the flawed premise that we can always have more was more than I was willing to take. Eric did his best to quickly shut her down, and eventually ended the conversation with the promise that we would flood her with URLs of homebirth information.

Eric was a little upset, but defended his mother's motives; she, after all, had two miscarriages and then a placental abruption that nearly took Eric's own life. Birth terrifies her, and the thought of treating it as a natural, happy event rather than a potential medical emergency is a foreign concept to her. I can understand that. I wouldn't ever argue that somebody so obviously terrified of out-of-hospital birth should have one. I've done my research - more than my share, actually - and I've reached my own decision. I'm not thrilled about having to present a doctoral dissertation on midwifery whenever I mention that we're planning a homebirth.

Angry, I called my own mother. After telling her about the conversation that had just transpired, I asked, "Are you all right with us having a homebirth?"

"Sure."
"Why?"
"Well, you've done the research. I believe you."

I wanted to jump through the telephone line and hug her around the neck as hard as I could. Finally, validation from somebody outside of the homebirth loop! She then suggested that I ask the midwives for advice at our appointment; they've surely dealt with anxious grandparents and might know some calming words to give. I felt better and better; this would work out.

My mom then changed the subject. "So, are you renting a tub for the birth?" I almost laughed out loud. I love my mommy!

Yesterday, after storytime, the little girl ran up to give me a hug. While I held her, she snaked her head around and kissed me on the cheek. She left without saying a word, and I realized that she had not said a word the whole time she was there. Perhaps next week I can convince Mom to stay outside the story room; I think little one is feeling the effects of her mother's overpowering nature more than I had realized.