Happy 7th Birthday Sophie Marseille, French baby
“Can’t this thing go any faster?! My French baby is on the way!”
I cursed, barely squeezing into my lane before the impact of an oncoming truck. Less than 24 hours into our vacation, my wife Susan and I found ourselves in hot pursuit. Provencal hillsides blurred past the windows as I struggled to keep our tin-can Renault from going off the road.
She was in the ambulance up front. I hung on behind. Above the engine’s whine, the fateful words of the sage-femme still echoed in my mind: “You will have a French baby …”
On September 27, at six months pregnant, we’d arrived in southern France for a two-week beach vacation—a “babymoon”—with the blessings of our doctors back home in California. “Everything looks great,” they’d said. “Bon voyage!”
But somewhere over the Atlantic, Susan started complaining of stomach pains. “Maybe it’s just the airplane food” we reasoned. We had no inkling of the adventure that had already begun. As we flew on to Nice and settled into our little renta…
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