Every mother has a story about how each of her children came into her life. January 4th is the birthday of my older son, Jacob. It took three days to deliver him and every year my husband and I remember and marvel all over again about those three days.

At the time, Jim and I lived uptown. He was a book editor and his office was downtown on Madison Avenue, a very long block away from New York University Hospital at 30th and First Avenue, where I was going to give birth. I’d been checking in and out of the hospital over two days, mostly lying on the couch in Jim’s office while he worked. On the evening of the second day I begged a nurse to let me get something to eat. I hadn’t eaten a thing since I’d started labor, doctor’s orders. I was ravenous, and when she said “Sure!” Jim and I went downstairs to an Indian restaurant.

Afterward we went to Jim’s office and I stretched out on the sofa while he edited manuscripts. The office emptied of people and finally at about 2 am I told Jim that it was time for us to go to the hospital, now, and that we’d need to hail a cab because there was no way I was going to be able to walk that long block. It was showtime.

We took the elevator to the lobby, where there was a 24-hour guard, except that the guard wasn’t there and the doors, flanked by floor-to-ceiling glass windows, were locked. There was no other exit, and Jim immediately went to seize the large fire extinguisher on the wall in order to smash the door and free us. I pointed out that there was a phone right there on the wall, with a convenient list of phone numbers next to it, topped by the number of the local precinct. I called them (not 911, a detail that became relevant later) and explained the situation, and shortly afterward there appeared first one, then two, then three police cars. Six officers asked through the door how I was doing as I coped with labor pains by walking in circles under the fluorescent lights. This was not a fancy lobby. It was bare and filthy, no furniture except a small metal stool like the kind in a shop class. It was New York City in January, and dirty slush had dried on the floor. It was not a place where you’d want to crouch down, let alone lie down. The stool was too small for my pregnant bulk, so I walked.

It seemed reasonable to assume that the guard had taken a bathroom or coffee break, so four of the cops fanned out to local delis and Greek coffee shops. Time passed, the cops returned, having covered the whole neighborhood, and there was still no sign of the guard. Meanwhile, an ambulance had arrived, so I now had a crowd of six police officers and two EMTs watching and waiting for me to lie down and finish the show. They were very nice and concerned, and I am certain that they would have broken the glass if the baby started to come.

As I walked, I kept thinking about how unflattering fluorescent lights were and how extremely wet and dirty the floor was. But it all also seemed kind of funny, and I was making good use of my Lamaze breathing techniques. As I walked in circles I waved and tried to smile.

Eventually another vehicle appeared: a police locksmith van. The locksmith hopped out and removed the entire lock cylinder in a few quick motions. Then the EMTs came forward and insisted that I get in the ambulance. I refused, saying that we would catch a cab (it was Madison Avenue and there were plenty), but they were adamant, saying that they had lots of experience delivering babies. I was one block (though a long one) from the hospital and wasn’t at all happy about getting in and getting strapped down, and once that was done it took about 30 seconds to get me to the hospital and unstrapped again.

Jacob was born, at last, at 12:27 pm the next afternoon.

And there are two postscripts to the story.

1: We received a handwritten letter of apology from the owner of the building. We appreciated that. We are not litigious and the sincere note was sufficient. And we never did find out where the guard had been or what happened to him (or his job) afterward.

And 2: I received a bill from the City of New York for the ambulance. I called them to protest. I had not wanted the ride in the ambulance, I had strenuously objected to it. But it was an emergency, they said. I said, no, I had never said it was an emergency. But you called 911 they said. No, I said, check your records, I called the local precinct because I was locked in a building, not because I was in labor. But, they said, your insurance will cover most of it. If you don’t drop this, I told him, I will call my insurance company and relay the entire story. So they dropped it.

That would be the end of the story, but there’s actually a bit more. Some people say that what a mother eats during pregnancy can have an influence of the child she is carrying beyond its nutritional value. Is it true? I don’t know. But that baby grew up to be a lover of, and writer about, all things food. His favorite cuisine has been -since infancy- Indian food. Formerly employed as a food editor in New York City, he now writes about the transition to his life in Oaxaca, Mexico, in his Substack account at https://oaxaca.substack.com/p/a-year-in-oaxaca-236.