Evil Gal Productions

Mere Smith
is a recovering Southerner,
longtime TV writer,
author and blogger.
January 19th, 2012 by Mere Smith

So Obviously, She’s Pregnant Again

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 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.

Comments

7 Responses to “So Obviously, She’s Pregnant Again”
  1. I’m really glad I got over the wanting to have 12 children thing! My sister didn’t want me in the delivery room, but I did get to hold my nephew when he was five minutes old while she delivered the placenta – and then examined it with the doctor for abnormalities! (She was a med student at the time.)

    Good luck to your sister – and you. I hope the baby is healthy and it is an easy birth.

    • Thanks for the good wishes — my sister’s a BAMF, and I’m sure the baby will be, too. Seems to run in the family. 😉

  2. Carissa says

    Get QIK for your phone, you can post live video streaming to the net and we CAN ALL WATCH. Yeah, live tweeting is sooooo yesterday. 😉 I bed you’re a bad-ass aunt, too. Luck to you all!

    • Thanks, Moddie. But yeah, the everyone-in-my-social-circle-watching thing would ensure my sister never talked to me again. Hey, wait a minute…

  3. *shivers* I… seriously… cannot… imagine the pain. And don’t wanna. I’m both physically brave AND a coward. I’ll march bravely into physical danger, but let me get two measly stitches or pass a stone (ouch) and I’m all like whine, whine, don’t touch me, get me percodan, no make that morphine, I hate your guts, oh fuck oh god, why oh why me, the suffering. Luckily I never much wanted the progeny.

    My older sister had two and she’s all like, oh you forget the pain. Sorry, I still remember pain from when I was 3 and I’d be happy to tell you. All about it. At length. With diagrams.

    Gods love your Sister Demon and all the other women with iron vaginas who are willing to go through this hell – or we’d have no issue.

    My best for her Ordeal, your Ordeal, and the Little One who must soon leave his/her warm all-service sac. *shivers again*

  4. I avoid this by ignoring The Pregnant One from the 3rd trimester to the 4-month-old baby. Saves a lot of fraying of the family ties. My sympathies for your indentured service.

  5. This is going to sound shallow and meaningless, but it is, at least, sincere: Support, strength and loves to you and your family, distributed in whatever proportion suits you best.

    May her child be a masculine child.

    Unless it’s a boy, in which case, a little femininity may not be so bad.

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