He drives like a maniac, running red lights, maybe even gets pulled over and earns a police escort to get us to the hospital while I pant and moan. The nurse takes one look at me and tells us that This baby is coming NOW! They toss me into a wheel chair and an hour later I’m holding a newborn while sweet music swells in the background. A lone tear slides down my dewy cheek as I lift my eyes—
Sorry. Got a little carried away there.
Giving birth to my daughter didn’t really go that way. At all. For one thing, I was induced the first time around because I went past my due date. Inducing kind of takes the fun out of everything, if you ask me. But whatever. Maybe this next one will be quicker.
One thing about my pregnancies that seem to mimic the movies is puke. And the puke, it’s back. I had a pretty good respite there where the pukes were few and far between. But, like a bad case of herpes, the firehose pukes have returned. Christmas dinner: gone in sixty minutes. And pretty much every breakfast thereafter.
This happened With Violet as well. Months six and seven were glorious (relatively speaking, of course) and month eight kicked in with a vomitous vengeance. This isn’t gentle puke. It isn’t the kind that slowly announces its arrival via an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. I’ll be standing somewhere in the house and then BAM! Puke city, baby.
Ever tried to keep puke in your mouth while you race for the toilet? It only inspires one thing: more retching.
So yeah. I guess if I never get the movie birth I always dreamed of I can always boast about my movie puke.