Having deposited me at the hospital after I went into labor with my firstborn, my husband snuck around the corner with my father to grab some Indian food. Everyone had missed dinner given the excitement of my water breaking.

When Papa suggested that they order a bottle of red, my husband looked at him like he was from another planet. It was going to be a long night at the hospital; wine was certainly out of the question. Caught in a severe generation gap, my father thought that his son-in-law gone stark-raving mad. How did a night at the hospital, long or short, concern him? Birthing a child was a mother’s work and seeing her through the process was her mother’s work.

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