OK, OK, after looking at today's stats (yes, I check up on how much you people are reading so git to clickin') and I'm guilted enough envisioning the thirty five sad, disappointed readers who were rewarded with that same Michelle Obama post, to stop eating peanut butter straight from the jar while trolling Facebook and put up a lame post (I lurk, I don't actually update my status, since I'm pretty sure no one is interested in reading "Mary is...changing a giant shit right now and swearing she will never feed Little Man watermelon again"). Don't say I didn't warn you.
So speaking of LM, his second birthday was last Monday, which was was greeted with the usual Mean Mommy fanfare, mostly due to the insistence of his sisters, since I would have fully taken advantage of his relative unawareness, forgone the balloons and streamers and just gotten him some lame A&P cake. Oh, the plight of the last child. Instead, the house was decked out in Thomas the Train paraphenalia and said lame A&P cake, was still from the A&P, but it was the $40 specialty cake shaped like a 3D Thomas that his siblings told me I "had" to get. PS, we're still eating it and I think my intestines have turned cobalt blue.
Again, as the third child, rather than regale you with stories of his birth and how life altering it was, let me share with you how his birth was the catalyst for the single most humiliating experience of my life.
So I get to the hospital at four in the morning, after being in labor all night, and slapping H at the admissions desk (note to husbands everywhere: when the admissions nurse asks your wife for basic info, like her name, and it appears she is experiencing her four hundredth contraction of the night and can not speak, open your fucking mouth and answer for her rather than make her slap you during said contraction to jolt you out of your stupor, making the nurse burst with laughter and squeal, "Oh, no she di-in't!!!"), I finally make it to the delivery room, am told I am eight centimeters and yes, thank God, I get my epidural. After watching The Barefoot Contessa on the lovely, adjustable flat screen TV, with my equally lovely OB nurse sitting next to me chatting while H snored in the recliner (again, the third child - another day, another kid), I began to feel some pressure down below. And not the baby kind. I had to go #2.
I convey this need to the nurse and she tells me, maybe it's the baby. "This is my third, I can tell the difference between a baby's head and a poo", I tell her. No dice. She can not let me sit on a toilet and push lest my child have an accidental water birth. "I'll put a chuck (disposable pad) under you and you can go in the bed", she tells me. WHAT THE WHAT??? She can not be serious. I had heard of women crapping on the table during delivery, but that was in the heat of the moment, mid-push, with their child's arrival seconds away. Who cares if you lay a Baby Ruth on the table under those circumstances? No one's looking at that hole anyway. Now I'm being told I will be fully cognizant, with witnesses to my intentional pooping? I'll take death, thank you.
All the begging in the world and assurances I would not expel any offspring into the loo would not change her mind. At this point, lucky for me, H had woken up to witness the end of this debate and the loss of my dignity. He sides with the nurse not wanting to show pictures 'round the office of a baby blue from Mr. Clean disinfectant. Traitor. "Fine!" I sputter at him, pointing an accusatory finger, "but don't you dare look!!!" And twenty seconds, and two pairs of averted eyes, later I was done, the evidence was whisked away, and we all pretended it never happened. Except I replayed it in my mind and cringed with shame every five minutes for the next few days and apparently developed some kind of tick because as soon as some visitor would ask me how the delivery went I'd say, "Great! But I took a dump on the table!"
Which, lucky for you, dear readers, I don't seem to have gotten over.
School begins Wednesday. Be back soon.
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