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I can't recall which sound awoke me from my midnight slumber that Saturday - the thunderous boom of my wife's pregnant body hitting the hardwood floor at the bottom of the stairs, or the screaming that soon followed. Not that it mattered. The tsunami of fear coursing through me was beyond any nightmare, so it had to be real.

Christi had decided our narcotic-infused dog was in need of a pottie break, and being that her fear of cleaning pee stains is one of the few things more ominous than the delivery date of our second child less than two weeks away, she picked him up and felt her way down the dark stairs. But the ever-growing girth of that baby, combined with the jello-like weight of that pug, created enough vertigo to miss one crucial step, and in an instant she was at the bottom clutching her belly and ankle and shot-putting the dog across the room.

My first thought was for the baby, then for Christi, then for Ace the Pug, then...embarrassingly...for my 8am start time at the Steep Ravine 50k. My God, Scott, are you that selfish? The shame was quickly taken down a notch by the smidgen of pride felt from getting the priority correct. Christi's ankle was a mess, already swelling to the size of a softball, and we quickly got ice on it. Ace was fine - he had drunk-drivered the whole thing, being so relaxed he bounced off the hardwood floor and just curled up to keep sleeping. I thought we were in good shape, perhaps enough to entertain that 8am start time. But then Christi uttered the words no expecting parent wants to hear:

"The baby isn't moving."

I tried to calm her, but the vice grip of fear kept my sentences short and my eyes welling with worst case scenarios. We could barely look at each other, knowing our collective fear would be too great for either one of us to survive. Instead, we woke up Sophie and headed to the Emergency Room in the most painfully silent car ride i can remember.

An hour later, we all gave a sigh of relief. It turns out there are fewer safer places to be in accident than in the womb. Mommy's ankle was going to need some rest, but at least it wasn't broken. Sophie and i celebrated with pancakes at IHOP as the sun came up. Oh, yeah the race is starting...guess that's DNS #1. You know what, in the grand scheme of things, a race is a minor thing to sacrifice compared to what else could have happened today. Totally fine by me.

Then came yesterday at the Napa Valley Marathon, when i awoke in a pool of sweat, evidence that I had not completely shaken the minor flu bug from a few days earlier. Probably could run, but Christi and baby #2 are expecting me to be 100% for crewing for their big day today. That's DNS #2, a decision as easy to reach as the first one.

I can't believe it, but I'm actually proud of my little streak of DNS's. I'm glad my life is adventurous on its own to dethrone the race calendar, and remind me of the ever-needed perspective.

But let's hope they end soon. :-)