My sister has officially put me on notice.
The kind of notice where I don’t dare turn off my phone, or leave it in another room, or generally allow it to escape a 1-foot sphere circumscribing my body.
Because that phone could ring at. any. moment.
And gods help me if I miss that call.
The one where she says, “Hey, dummo, guess what, I’m having contractions so you’d better drop whatever stupid useless shallow thing you’re doing in your stupid useless shallow life and get your ass on a plane right now to help me bring another beautiful human being into this world or I swear to almighty Christ I will reach through this phone and tear your fuckfacing lips off.”
So obviously, she’s pregnant again.
SOOOOOOO pregnant, in fact, that I feel like I’m waiting for my contractions to start.
The same thing happened with the last one, too – I got so anxious about making sure I was there for The Call that I started to have delusions (delusions I only partially disbelieved – which is why they’re called delusions) that I was pregnant, too, and that we’d be having our babies on the same day. The fact that my uterus did not contain a baby — and that I knew that — did not dissuade me in the least.
Truthfully, I’m not sure which I’m more afraid of – being insane enough to hallucinate that I’m having a nonexistent baby… or dealing with my sister if I miss The Call.
I’m pretty sure it’s dealing with my sister. She’s a fucking demon, even when she’s not pregnant. And I don’t know if you’ve ever dealt with a demon having contractions, but they are… not nice.
…which is a polite way of saying they are violent and evil and will kill you to bloody death if you don’t do what they want immediately.
My sister has a lot of rules for the birthing process. She’s like the dictator of her births, which if you ask me, is totally her right. If I had to push an infant out of my love tunnel, I’m pretty sure I’d be the Stalin of having babies: slaughtering peasants by the thousands in the name of the greater good… the greater good being GET THIS GIANT FUCKING HUMAN OUT OF MY VAGINA RIGHT FUCKING NOW.
See, my sister is one of those modern crunchy granola moms who has her babies at home, in birthing pools, with soothing music and hypnosis and candles and a midwife and 80 digital cameras set up to record everything. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to live-tweet the event, but I’m guessing she’ll tell me when I get there. She has this special Exorcist voice she uses.
And believe me, I can appreciate all this.
But I appreciate it in the same way I appreciate the Mona Lisa. In a kind of, “WOW! That is AMAZING! I could NEVER do that, not even FOR A JAMILLION DOLLARS AND SEX WITH BRAD PITT AND ANGELINA JOLIE AT THE SAME TIME!” kind of way.
My sister has enormous brass balls (which, oddly, do not get in the way of her pushing a baby out of her vagina). She is stronger and braver than I will ever be – that is, unless I start taking massive amounts of steroids, bench-pressing VWs, and then survive falling out of an airplane without a parachute. I figure if you survive falling out of an airplane without a parachute, there’s not too much you’re afraid of anymore.
But no, even then I wouldn’t be as brave as my sister, ‘cause I think given the choice between having a natural birth like her, or falling out of the plane again, I’d go with the plane.
From what I remember, the actual birth process is largely a blur of warm water and cold washcloths and heavy breathing and copious sweating and my sister is doing some stuff during it, too. And after the baby is born, I find myself wondering if it all really happened or if someone slipped acid into my Moroccan Mint Latte that morning.
Then I fall on something horizontal and sleep for fourteen hours straight.
I am really looking forward to that part.
But until then, I wait for The Call.
I think I can feel my uterus clenching.