A week before my daughter was born, I was beginning to get a twinge of panic. We were having her way out in deep, dark Brooklyn, an hour’s drive if you hit full rush hour traffic. For most women that long drive in the back of a cab might be enough to worry about, but I had a real worry that she would actually be born in that cab. My mother’s first labor had been under an hour and all of her subsequent labors had been similarly speedy. This, much more than the pain of it, sprang into my mind one afternoon toward the end of Mira’s inside time.
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