“I’m sick of being pregnant! I can’t even groom myself anymore!”
“I’m sorry, baby.”
“Why can’t you take over at this point? Why can’t this be like “March of the Penguins,” like where you share in warming the egg?”
“I would if I could, baby.”
We graduated from Prepared Childbirth class yesterday. We were the youngest pups there, I’m guessing by at least five years. I had so many questions. I was the only one grabbing for my baby daddy’s hand during the moments in the videos where they showed the crowning. And at every mention of the word “membranes,” I was pulling my t-shirt up over my mouth like an overstretched turtleneck. Rookie-dom solidifies itself more everyday.
Last night I had a dream that I went for my OB/GYN check-up and the nursing staff, who all spoke Spanish, told me that my pelvic bone was too tight and that I would need it adjusted in order to have a successful vaginal birth. So, naturally, they told me to climb up on a set of high monkey bars so they could stretch out my pelvis. I complied. I then went home, started having contractions, and realized it was too late to go to the hospital. I gave birth to Mortimer, Bill Cosby’s pen from “Picture Pages.”