Текст книги "Futures and Frosting"

Автор книги: Tara Sivec

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

Gavin stomps his foot. “YOU’RE A LIAR YOU BIG FAT TURKEY!”

“I am not fat.  I’m muscular.  Get your facts straight,” Drew argues.

“Okay, can someone please tell me if my kid really swallowed a penny?” Claire asks loudly, putting a halt to the arguing.

“Well, I Googled ‘kids swallowing pennies’ and you’d be surprised how many hits I got,” Liz says.  “Anyway, as long as the penny was made before 1982, he’ll be fine.”

Claire and I stare at her for a few minutes before Claire explodes.

“What the fuck?!”

“Awwwwww, Mom,” Gavin scolds as he pointed at her.

“I’m sorry, what the f-u-c-k does t-h-a-t mean and w-h-a-t do we do n-o-w?”

She has officially turned into one of the Stepford mothers, spelling words she doesn’t even need to spell because she is so freaked out.  She is not going to be happy about this.

“It’s fine, Claire.  I used my metal detector on him and the penny wasn’t there,” George stated.

“You’re kidding me, right?  You know there’s this fancy thing called a hospital you can go to, don’t you?” she asks.

“I walked uphill both ways in a snow storm with no shoes just to get to school when I was his age, and I ate metal shavings for fun.  A little copper isn’t going to hurt him,” George argues.

“Unless the penny was made after 1982 because then it’s made with enough zinc to melt his esophagus,” Drew said matter-of-factly.  “I’m pretty sure that would have happened by now though, so he’s probably good.”

Claire bends down next to Gavin and pulls him into her arms.

“Sweetie, how do you feel?  Is your tummy okay?” she asks him.

“My tummy is good.  Papa said I need to drop a deuce and check it for money.  I can poop money!” he says excitedly.

“I wish I could poop money,” Drew complains.

I bend down next to Claire and Gavin, gathering both of them in my arms.

“Just so you know, we’re totally eloping,” I tell her.

“Oh thank God,” she replied.

22.  Hump, Hump, Hump

“So you really like it?” Carter asks for the hundredth time.

We are finally in bed relaxing after the long day, and I can’t stop staring at my ring.

“I think I like it more than you.”

Carter laughs. “Very funny.”

“Oh, I’m totally serious.  I’ve been thinking all this time that you just didn’t want to marry me and here you were carrying a ring around in your pocket.  I kind of want to whittle my toothbrush into a shiv and stick it in your eye,” I tell him seriously.

He rolled over onto his side and rested his hand on my stomach.

“I’m sorry.  I should have done it the day I bought the ring.  I just wanted it to be perfect and then we found out you were pregnant and I know how your mind works.  You would have never believed I was doing it for the right reasons if I did it right when we found out,” he says as he gently rubs his palm in a circle on my protruding belly.

“I know, you’re right.  My mother said the same thing,” I tell him, placing my hand on top of his and pushing it down towards the bottom of my stomach where I usually feel the teeny tiny kicking of little feet.  To me it feels like bubbles popping, and I'm not sure if he would be able to feel it yet but it doesn’t hurt to try.

“Rachel actually said something that made sense?” he asks in surprise.

“Yeah, it shocked me too,” I say, turning my head on the pillow so I can see his face.  “I should have just talked to you.  Obviously I suck at the whole communication thing.  I’m much better at suffering in silence.”

Carter scoots closer and moves his hand out from under mine, sliding it up the front of my body until it rests on my cheek.

“I think we both have a long ways to go in the communication department.  We’ll get there though,” he assures me.

“Did I tell you that when all this doubt crept into my mind I told Liz about it and she suggested that I give you a prostate massage?”

“Oh my God, stop.  Don’t say any more.  Jim actually told me about the night she did that to him and it was horrifying.  Please don’t say any more,” he warns.

“I don’t know, you might like it,” I tease.

“Hey, I don’t even let anybody wag their finger in my FACE,” Carter says in a Brooklyn accent.

“Seriously?  A Sopranos quote now?”

“Um, yes.  There is a Sopranos quote for every occasion.  Hence, the reason for its awesomeness.  Respect The Sopranos,” Carter tells me seriously.

I roll over onto my side toward him and slide my leg up and over Carter’s hip, running my fingers through his hair.

“I think we should celebrate this momentous occasion by me sticking my penis in you,” he says with a smile.

“You’re lucky you gave me jewelry today or I might have punched you for that.”

Carter pulls me closer and brings his lips to mine.  Just like always, his kisses make me forget about everything.  The softness of his lips and the smooth glide of his tongue against mine remind me of just how long it has been since we've had sex.  With our crazy schedules and my attitude problem, it's been a while and I am more than starved for him.  His arms wrap around me and his hands slide down to my ass, cupping it and pulling me in against his hardness.  I shift my hips against him and let out a groan.

“Wait, hold on.  Shit,” he mutters, breaking off the kiss.

I pull my head back and shoot him a questioning look.’

“What?  What’s wrong?”

Is his penis broken?  Oh dear God please don’t let it be broken.  I NEED IT TO LIVE.

“I have to pee.  Hold that thought,” he says, pulling out of my arms and scrambling off of the bed.

I roll over onto my back and stare up at the ceiling.  A few minutes later I still hadn’t heard the toilet flush.

“Hey, are you okay in there?” I yell.

“SHHHHHHH!  NO TALKING!” he yells back.

What the fuck?

“What do you mean no talking?  What the hell is going on?”

I hear a few expletives coming from the bathroom, and I raise myself up on my elbows so I can look at the closed bathroom door.

“I can’t pee!” he finally yells back.

“What do you mean you can’t pee?”

Holy shit, it really IS broken.  I knew I should have used it more these past few months.  Son of a bitch!  It broke from non-use.

“Seriously, you need to stop talking.  You’re making it worse.”

“What the hell are you talking about?  How am I making it worse?” I argue.

The door to the bathroom finally opens and he stands there with his hands on his hips and a tent in the front of his boxers.

“Because, your voice turns me on and I can’t get rid of my fucking boner!  I would never say this to you under normal circumstances but this is an emergency.  So shut the hell up for a minute so I can pee!”

With that he goes back in the bathroom and slams the door closed behind him.

Well, at least it still works.

 

~

 

“Oh it was awesome once we got past Carter’s freak out,” I tell Liz the next day on the phone.  “He was convinced the baby could see his penis and would either get jealous or have nightmares for the rest of its life about a penis monster trying to eat its face.  Then he wanted to try and find a condom because he though his sperm might drown the baby.  I actually had to bring my laptop into bed and show him that his penis would need to be two feet long for it to get anywhere near the baby.”

Carter is working the day shift today and I'm spending the late afternoon taking down wallpaper in the room that will eventually be the nursery.  I’d been at it for a few hours and was exhausted.  I had taken a break to call Liz and report to her about how the rest of our evening went.  Since she had constantly berated me the last few months about how often we WEREN’T having sex, I felt she deserved an update.  After a few minutes we end the call and I decide to take a trip up to the local corner store to get one of my current pregnancy cravings: a black cherry slush.  So far I’ve had one every single day since the day I found out.  They are delicious and refreshing and the only place that sells the black cherry ones is the place right around the corner from our house.

I pack Gavin in the car and head down the street.  Once inside the store, I make a beeline for the slush machine in the back, dragging Gavin along with me.  I get to the machine and stopped in my tracks, staring at the sign that's taped to the front.

“Out of order?  What do you mean, out of order?” I say out loud.

“It means it don’t work,” Gavin says.

“I know that’s what it means.  But it’s a slush machine.  It turns water into ice and you add cherry syrup to it.  How hard can it be for a machine to do that?”

I see that the machine is still plugged in so I let go of Gavin’s hand, grab onto it, and start jiggling it back and forth.

The power light doesn’t come on so I start pressing all of the buttons over and over.  When that doesn’t work, I start smacking the side of the machine with the palm of my hand.

“Mom, you’re gonna break it,” Gavin warns.

“Stupid piece of shit machine.  All you have to do is make ice you worthless pile of horse shit!” I say to it, completely ignoring Gavin.

Oh my God I need this slush.  I need it like I need air to breathe.  Why the fuck won’t it just work!

At this point I'm pretty sure my brain has left my body.  I continue to physically assault the machine, hitting it with my fists and cursing at it like it's a person who can fight back.

“Nothing to say for yourself, asshole?  You can’t even TRY to work?  You lazy piece of shit.  Get off your ass and make me a slush!”

People are starting to stare. I can feel their eyes on me as I rape the slush machine with my hands.  I pull cords, I stick my finger in holes, and I remove the entire front cover, exposing all of the inner workings.

“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to step away from the slush machine,” a man in a corner store uniform tells me.

“Why the hell isn’t your machine working?  You need to fix the machine,” I tell him, standing there with the cover of it in my hands like it's a shield.

“I’m sorry but there’s a part that isn’t working.  We had to order a new machine and it won’t be in until next week,” he explains, prying the cover out of my hand and setting it aside.

“Next week?  NEXT WEEK?  What are people supposed to do for slushes if they have to wait a week?” I ask.

“God doesn’t want you to have a slush,” Gavin tells me.

I look down at him questioningly.

“God is king of the world and he says you don’t need a slush.  Can I get some ice cream?” he asks.

“God doesn’t know.  HE DOESN”T KNOW,” I complain.

I’m pretty sure I’m having an out-of-body experience.  I can see myself acting like a complete douchebag, but there is nothing I can do about it.  I’m like a junkie that needs a fix.  My hands are shaking, my head hurts, and I’m about two seconds away from selling my kid and my shoes for another hit of black cherry slush.

I take Gavin’s hand, walk calmly out of the store, and drive home.

As soon as we get in the house I grab the phone and call Carter.  He picks up on the first ring and all I can do is sob hysterically.

“OH MY GOD, CLAIRE?!  What’s going on?  Is everything okay?  Is it the baby?  Did Gavin get hurt?” he shouts.

“The slush machine was broken!” I wail.

Dead silence on the other end.

“I’m sorry, what?” he asks.

“Did I stutter?  The slush machine was broken.  I couldn’t get my slush.  I need a fucking slush!” I cry.

“Wait a minute, this is all because of a slush?” he questions.

Oh my God, it’s he doesn’t know anything about me.  How can I marry someone who doesn’t understand me?

“I thought something serious happened,” he says irritably.

“Something serious DID happen!  Are you even listening to what I’m saying?”

Carter sighs and I try to calm myself by NOT thinking about how much I want a slush.  Instead, I think about how I want to stick my fist up Carter’s ass and give him a prostate massage with my fist.

“I’m getting off of work in a few minutes.  My parents should be there in about an hour.”

Oh shit.  The future in-laws are in town for a visit.  Thank God I didn’t get arrested at the corner store.  That would have been awkward.

“I’ll bring you a slush on my way home,” he promises.

“Black cherry?”

“Yes, black cherry,” he confirms.

“I love you!  See you soon!”

~

Carter’s parents show up right on time.  Thankfully I finish my big gulp slush by then and can carry on a normal, non bat shit crazy conversation.  Madelyn walks through the door first and tells us all to come in the living room and close our eyes because she has a surprise for us.  A few seconds later, Charles says, “Okay, open them!”

Gavin and Carter let out excited yells and I groan.

“A puppy!  A puppy!  You got me a puppy!  I can hug it and squeeze it and ride it like a bike and give it haircuts!” he shouts excitedly as he gets down on the floor.

The puppy, if you can call it that, is almost the same size as Gavin, and it looks like a polar bear.

“Is it even legal to own one of those?” I question.  The more I look at the thing, the more I wonder if they really did just bring us an endangered animal that will grow to be nine-hundred pounds.  Do you have any idea how big of a shit a nine-hundred pound animal takes?

“This is a pure bread Great Pyrenees,” Madelyn tells me, expecting me to be impressed.

I'm not.

“Wow, this is awesome.  Thank you guys so much.  You know I’ve always wanted one of these,” Carter tells them.

I look at him in shock.  He’s always wanted a horse for a pet?  This thing is going to be bigger than our car.

“How exciting.  We get to house-train a dog AND a new baby.  Can they both be taught to shit outside?  Or should we put a diaper on the dog?  Pick one, because we’re not doing both,” I whisper to Carter as he pets the dog, and his parents take a seat on the couch.

“Don’t worry. It will be fine,” Carter whispers back as he stands up and lets Gavin run around the room with the dog playfully following behind him.

“The first time he shits in my shoes I’m going to rub your nose in it,” I threaten.

“I have all of the American Kennel Club paperwork for you out in the car as well as the authenticity papers from the breeder,” Madelyn tells us.

Super.  Our dog has more class than we do.

“What’s his name?” Carter asks.

“Reginald Phillip III,” Charles answers.

“Oh, that’s getting changed immediately,” I mutter.

“I want to call him Bud,” Gavin states as he runs around us in circles with the dog right on his heels.

“That’s a good name,” Carter tells him.

“I know.  I’m naming him after the daddy juice you drink.”

“How about we wait a little bit before deciding on a name,” Carter tells him.

“Reginald Phillip, get down!” Madelyn scolds.

We turn around to see the dog mounted up on Gavin’s back with his paws on his shoulders.  Gavin just keeps moving and laughing.  It looks like a freaky version of the locomotion dance.

“Ha ha. What’s he doing?!  This is fun!” Gavin laughs.

“Oh my God, he’s humping our kid,” I mutter, smacking Carter on the arm so he will do something.

Carter runs over and pulls the dog off of Gavin by its collar.

“Heeeey, why’d you do that?  We were having fun,” Gavin complains.

“Uh, he was trying to pee on you,” Carter tells him.

I look at him like he's insane and he just shrugs. “What?  I panicked.  I can’t tell him what humping means,” he says quietly.

Gavin lets out another excited yell and once again, we find the dog hugging onto his shoulders and thrusting his hips behind him.

“Hump, hump, hump. I’m gonna pee on you!  Hump, hump, hump!” Gavin chants as the two hop around the room and Carter tries to separate them again.

“Obviously you’ll want to have him neutered as soon as possible,” Madelyn states with a straight face.

Gee, you think?  The dog is trying to breed with my son.

“All aboard the choo-choo train, all aboard the choo-choo train, WOOT WOOT!” Gavin sings with the dog happily enjoying his caboose position.

“Carter, get me the hose.”

23.  Scittly Scat-Scat

Five months later.

 

“Last chance to change your mind.  You’re sure this is what you want to do,” Carter asks as he starts the car and backs out of the driveway.

“I swear to God if you ask me that one more time, I’m going to straight up murder your ass.  It’s like you want me to wreck my vagina,” I tell him.

Today is the big day.  The one I have been equally dreading and looking forward to:  my scheduled c-section.  We are on our way to the hospital now so I can get checked in.  Carter has been questioning my decision to have a repeat c-section since the day the doctor asked me about it six months ago.

“It’s not that. I just want to make sure you don’t regret never having the experience of actual childbirth.  I’ve heard that some women who have c-sections get really depressed because they didn’t get to know the joy of pushing their child out,” Carter explains.

“I’m sorry, who are these women you spoke to?  Did you make a trip to a mental hospital recently?  What woman in her right mind would regret that her vagina didn’t turn into a gaping, bloody wound with bodily fluids pouring out of it and a baby clawing its way out, sometimes ripping and tearing until her vagina and asshole are just one big disgusting abyss?” I ask.

“Forget I said anything. I just want you to be happy,” Carter states diplomatically.

“Some women take a dump on the birthing table when they are pushing their kid out.  Do you really think that’s an experience you want to have?” I question.  “I’ve heard the nurses make quick work of cleaning it up before anyone notices, but you’ll notice.  Believe me.  How can you NOT notice the room suddenly smelling of fecal matter?”

“Stop, please stop,” Carter begs.

“I am very happy with my decision.  And you should be happy that six weeks from now, banging me won’t feel like waving a stick in a cave or dipping your pinkie into the Grand Canyon.”

“Okay, I get it,” Carter says as he pulls into the hospital parking lot.

“Thrusting a pencil into a fireplace...shoving a piece of straw into a barn door,” I add.

“Why am I getting turned on right now?” Carter asks as he finds a parking space and we get out of the car.

“Are you into scat play?  You’re not going to make me poop on you at some point are you?  Tell me now so I can give you this ring back.”

Carter ignores me as we get into the elevator and make our way up to Labor and Delivery.  But I will not be ignored.  Oh no, I will not be ignored.

“Scittly scat-scat, do bop dee scat!” I sing as we walk up to the nurse’s station and hand them my admitting forms.

The nurse gives me a funny look so I feel it's only right to explain to her my song choice.

“My fiancé wants to me to poop on him,” I tell her.  “Scat-scat, dee didily bop!”

“Oh Jesus, I’m sorry.  I don’t know what has gotten into her this morning,” he explains, shooting me a dirty look.

“It’s perfectly fine.” The nurse laughs.  “It’s just nerves.  Believe me, I’ve heard worse from other women checking in.” she told us.

What nerves?  I’m not nervous.  I’ve done this before.  Piece of cake.

“We’ll just get you settled into a room down by the O.R., start an I.V. of fluids, and have you fill out your registration forms.  The doctor will come in and talk to you as well as the anesthesiologist.  I’ll stop by after that to give you a dose of Bicitra to drink.  It’s a small little cup of liquid that will help if you happen to get nauseous during the procedure.  After that, it’s go time!” she says excitedly.

What the fuck have I done?!  Turn back NOW!

“I changed my mind.  Maybe I do want a black hole for a vagina.  How bad could it be?  I wouldn’t need to carry a purse anymore.  I could just shove things up my twat.  ‘Oh, you need a pen?  Hold on, let me check in my vagina.  What’s that you say? Do I have a flashlight?  Let me stick my hand up my vag and find out.’  Let’s go home.  We could do a home birth in the bathtub.  It might be a tight squeeze but I bet we could both fit in there,” I ramble to Carter.

“Can we get some morphine to go?” I ask the nurse.

She just chuckles as she shows us to the room and gets busy typing things into the computer while Carter pushes on my shoulders to get me to sit on the bed.

“Everything is going to be fine. Take a deep breath,” Carter tells me.

“They are going to cut open my stomach and pull a human out, Carter,” I whine.

“I know, babe.  I’m nervous too.  But you’ve done this before, and you know exactly what to expect.  You know what it’s going to feel like, you know how long it’s going to take, and you know what the end result will be...finally being able to see our baby,” he says with a smile as he leans down and kisses the top of my  head.  “At last we can find out if we’ll have a Carmela or a Tony.”

“Oh I don’t think so.  We’ve already had this discussion and we are NOT naming this kid after some ass munchers on the Sopranos.  Get that thought out of your head right now,” I tell him.

“You are such a killer of dreams, you know that?” he complains.

~

“Just remember, Carter, when the baby is out, we’ll have you come down here to the foot of the operating table so you can take pictures and watch your little one get cleaned off, measured, and weighed.  But don’t forget, whatever you do, don’t look at Claire,” the doctor warns.

“What the hell is he talking about,” Carter whispers, leaning down by my ear.

I'm strapped to the operating table with my arms stretched out in a T on either side of me.  A huge, blue drape is attached to two I.V. poles on both sides of the table and placed strategically so I can’t see past my boobs.  When I had my c-section with Gavin, I wondered what the big deal was of putting this drape up.  Maybe I wanted to see what was going on down there and make sure they didn’t screw up.  Then a few months later, I had watched a c-section on the medical channel and I almost threw up.  NOT something you ever want to see being done to yourself, mark my words.

“I’m pretty sure they just don’t want you to look over at me with my guts hanging out all over the place and freak out,” I tell Carter.

“Okay, Claire, you’re going to feel a lot of tugging now as we get the baby out,” the doctor tells me.

I definitely remember this part from the first time.  Not painful, but really fucking weird.  Like someone is grabbing onto your stomach skin with both hands and yanking it all over the place.  The fact that I know there's a doctor shoulder-deep inside my stomach right now is what's more painful.

Carter sits on a stool right by my head next to the anesthesiologist and keeps smoothing a few stray pieces of hair out of my eyes that have escaped from my hospital cap.  He continues to ask me how I'm doing and kisses my forehead every few seconds, telling me how much he loves me and how proud he is of me.  He is so strong, and I am once again reminded of how lucky I am to have this amazing man in my life.

“Okay, Carter, get your camera ready.  When I say the word, you can stand up and aim your camera over the top of the sheet to take a picture,” the doctor says.

“Try not to get my internal organs in the picture.  They don’t photograph well,” I tell Carter.

He fiddles with the digital camera and gets it ready.  I look back at his upside down face and see him smiling from ear to ear.  Everything about this past year from the good and the bad to the ugly is all worth it because of this moment right here.  Carter had missed out on seeing the birth of Gavin and that fact still makes me sad.  But he is here now and I hope that seeing his next child born will ease a little of that ache for him.

“The baby’s out!  And it’s a girl!” the doctor exclaims.  “Get your picture, Dad!”

Carter jumps up and holds the camera above his head, quickly snapping a picture before sitting right back down and raining kisses all over my face while I cry.

“A girl?  Are you sure?  Is she okay?” I ask through my tears.

The next sound we hear is the wail of a healthy set of baby lungs.

Carter laughs through his own tears and continues kissing away mine.

“Oh, baby, you did it!  I’m so proud of you.  We have a girl!”

The anesthesiologist makes some adjustments to my I.V. now that the baby is out, and I momentarily wonder if would be okay for me to just start chanting “Morphine, morphine, morphine!” really loudly.

“Come on back, Dad, and see your little girl,” one of the nurses says.

Carter gives me one more kiss on the cheek before he gets up and begins to walk around the I.V. pole to make his way to the end of the operating table.

“Carter, don’t forget, don’t look at my―”

“OH JESUS CHRIST!  IS THAT HER INTESTINES??  WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?  OH MY GOD!”

I hear the sounds of tennis shoes squeaking on the floor as nurses most likely race to Carter’s side to get him away from the horror show.

“Oh fuck me, did I just step over a tube of blood that is draining out of her and into a bucket?  What the fuck is that for?”

When you have a c-section, there’s not much you can do but lie there and listen to the commotion going on around you.  It’s not like you could be all, “Hey, Doc, can you give me a minute?  I need to get up and check on my fiancé and make sure he doesn’t puke on our new baby.”  I had been given a spinal before this thing which meant I was numb from the neck down.  I'm not any good to anyone right now.

“They told you not to look!” I shout to Carter.

“That is the number one thing you should never say to anyone!  Of course if you tell me not to look, I’m going to look,” Carter says as his voice gets closer and closer.  Oh my God, Claire, I think I saw your spleen sitting on your chest.”

The next thing I know, Carter is right next to me holding a tiny, perfectly wrapped bundle of baby.  She looks like a little burrito wrapped tight in her white, blue, and pink hospital blanket and pink baby hat on her head.

Carter brings her right up to me and sets her down on the pillow next to my head so I can kiss her cheek.

“Oh my God, she’s perfect,” I cry as I stare at her sleeping face.

“Well, kind of perfect.  I think she has Elephantitis of the vagina though,” Carter tells me quietly.

I laugh and reach an arm over to stroke her soft, pink cheek.

“That’s normal.  All babies have enlarged genitalia when they’re born,” one of the nurses says as she walks past us to get something from a drawer against the wall.

“Oh yeah, you should have seen the size of Gavin’s balls when he was born.  Jesus.  He could have fit a small country into those things,” I say.

“Hey, maybe that’s just the way he was supposed to be born.  You know, taking after his father and all,” Carter says as he leans down and kisses our little girl’s cheek before kissing mine.

“Okay, Dad, if you want to go with your little girl down the hall to the nursery you can help give her her first bath and give the good news to your family members,” the doctor says.  “We’ll have Claire down in recovery in about forty-five minutes.  We just need to sew her up.”

A nurse comes and scoops up our little girl and places her in the bassinet with a sign on the end that reads “Sophia Elizabeth Ellis, 7lbs, 10oz.”

I refuse a Sopranos name, but I concede by letting Carter pick an Italian name.

“I love you so much,” Carter tells me, cupping his hand on my cheek and leaning over my head to kiss my lips upside down.

I turn my head to the side and watched the love of my life walk behind the bassinet that holds our new daughter.

When they are gone, I close my eyes and try to enjoy the morphine coursing through my veins and count all of the amazing blessings I have been given.  Unfortunately, I keep losing count.  As the doctor sews me up, he and the nurses count out loud and it's very distracting.  I had asked during Gavin’s c-section what the hell they were doing and I was told that they have to count all of the instruments and sponges to make sure none are left behind.  At the time, I thought it would be funny to start saying random numbers out loud to see if it would break their concentration.  Two, seven, one, fifteen, thirty-five.  But then I had realized it wasn't as funny if it was my body cavity they were losing these things in.  It’s hilarious when it’s someone else, not so much if I have to go back to the hospital six months later because there’s a pair of scissors stuck to my kidney or I’m shitting out sponges.

I block out the incessant drone of counting and think about just how perfect my life is now.  I can’t wait for Gavin to meet his new little sister, and I am actually excited to show her off to Carter’s parents.  It's a toss-up though on whether or not I'm so happy because I know the next four days will be spent getting waited on hand and foot with morphine and vicodin to cheer me up should I ever feel like slitting my own wrists.

The man I love more than anything wants to marry me, we have an amazing little boy who keeps us on our toes, a new, healthy baby girl, and the best family and friends.  Okay, maybe not the best.  Tolerable.  Life is good.  Nothing can take this feeling away right now unless the anesthesiologist turns off my morphine drip.  I’ll just take away his manhood if that happens.  I’m sure the doctor can find an extra scalpel in my intestines for me.

“Wow, would you take a look at that?” I hear the doctor say.

“Oh my,” one of the nurses replies.

“Uh, what’s going on?” I ask.

“Can someone get me a camera?”

Okay, that’s not something you need to hear when your stomach is cut open and you’re strapped to a table.

Someone take this mother fucking sheet down.  I don’t give a rat’s ass if I can see right through my stomach and out my vagina.  I’ll even help you stuff shit back in.

I can hear some whispering, which makes me a little uncomfortable.  I mean, what could they possibly be whispering about?  Is there another baby in there no one knew about?  Have they found an extra stomach?  Maybe I'm supposed to be a twin and I ate her.  Have they found my twin sister?  Is she looking at them right now like, “What the fuck, people?  Get me the hell out of here.  I’m twenty-five and I’m the size of a fist.  Do I look like I’m comfortable?”

I have always wanted a sister.  I can carry her around in my purse like Paris Hilton carries her dog.  I can perch her up on my shoulder and she can be like the good angel telling me what decisions I should make.

What if she’s mean though?  Twenty-five years is a long time to be in someone’s stomach.  Jesus himself would probably even drop a few F bombs about that nonsense.  She might sit on my shoulder and just shout insults at everyone.