Boston's Baby

The sauce, so robust.
The pepperoni, so sensationally spicy.
The crust, so perfectly crisp.

Everything about it is substantial and deeply satisfying. Boston’s is an oasis in our North Texas pizza desert, and I am not exaggerating when I say this:

Boston’s changed my life.

I could sing the praises of Boston’s Pizza until the end of my days. The only problem with it is the location—way too far from where we were living at the time.

When, at nine months pregnant and noon on a fine September Thursday, something suddenly felt different, I knew what was happening-- I was having a heart attack.

What else could explain the waves of gripping chest pain that took hold of me every three to four minutes?

The doctor was appropriately concerned and asked us to come in. Someone decided—probably because of my girth—that it would be a better idea to check in, so we did. My heart attack was quickly ruled out and replaced with a new diagnosis: labor contractions. The steadiest and strongest among all the patients on the maternity floor, I heard the nurse murmur into the phone to my doctor.

Yet there was no dilation. No other signs that this baby intended to be born today or anytime soon. None.

They released us around 8 p.m., but I did not want to go straight home. Boston’s Pizza was nearby.

“Eight hours ago, you thought you were having a heart attack. Now you want to stop for pizza?” I would not be deterred his health-logic, so I launched my campaign.

“It’s on the way, sort of.”

And, “I bet you’re starving. I’m starving!”
And, “This might be our last opportunity for a date for a long time!”
For the grand finale, I brought out my best line, which was limited-time-only and sure to expire soon:
“The baby is craving it. She needs it.”

Naturally, we'd do anything for the baby.

Soon we were pulling into the parking lot and perusing the menu.

“I know this sounds wild, but could we get two pizzas? Please? You heard the doctor-- the baby’s not coming anytime soon, and we almost never have an opportunity for Boston’s pizza. We’ll take it home, and I’ll have it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the next few days. You know I will, I promise. Please?”

He sighed and rolled his eyes, but he agreed. Nearly $70 later, we left with two family-sized boxes.

At 3 a.m., my water broke. It was time to make the one-hour drive back to the hospital.

“I’ll get your hospital bag. You head toward the car.”

“I’ll get my hospital bag. You go get the pizza.”

He didn’t realize that I was not joking. So obtuse. Why would I joke at a time like that?

We spent the whole next day back in the maternity ward. He made phone calls to our loved ones while I contracted and thought about all that pizza at home. Sometimes I thought about it with hope. Other times, I thought about it with bitterness.

Eight p.m. and still no baby. The decision was made to operate. My chances of ever seeing that pizza again were fading, fading, fading.

When I regained consciousness, they placed sweet baby Mia in my arms, and I forgot about everything else. Temporarily.

The day we were to be released, Mia’s dad made a quick trip home to ready the house for our return. On his way back to the hospital, he called from the car and we traded updates.

“The baby is fine. Eating and sleeping like a champ. Now, about that pizza…”

The pizza hadn’t made it. It was too late. Nothing could be done, he told me.

Fully aware of my foolishness, I attempted to replace the grief in my heart with more mommy-like thoughts.

Lion King, Circle of Life.
Out with the old, in with the new.

Fortunately the baby kept us busy, and there was no more time to dwell on the loss.

The passage of time is such a benevolent friend to our perspective, isn’t it?

When the wives’ tales weave through town whispering wisdom for how to bring on the baby, add Boston’s Pizza to the list. Remember, the trick is to order several days’ and seventy dollars’ worth. When strategies like taking long walks, going for bumpy car rides, and eating pineapple fail to induce labor, Boston’s delivers.