That is a fucking lie.
Because nothing can prepare you for the reality.
It’s not episiotomies.
It’s not gross fluids.
It’s not cutting an umbilical cord that looks like Italian sausage.
It’s waiting.
For hours.
“You guys look bored,” Megan says, sounding amused as she sits up in her hospital bed. Marty’s rubbing her back like the dutiful partner he is.
Otter and I are sitting in two chairs whose sole purpose seems to be as uncomfortable as possible, possibly to simulate what the woman is experiencing in prelabor. If that’s the case, then it has succeeded immensely, and I hate it. Because we’ve been here for three hours already.
“We’re not bored,” Otter reassures her.
“Definitely not,” I say.
“I mean, you’re giving us children,” Otter says.
“That negates everything else,” I say.
“They’re so bored,” Marty whisper-shouts to Megan.
“Isn’t it cute how they’re trying?” Megan asks him.
“How’s your cervix?” Otter asks her.
I smack him on the arm. “You can’t just ask someone that, Jesus Christ!”
He looks offended. “I’m pretty sure there is no more polite way to ask that.”
“I can find out for you if you’d like,” Marty says. “It’s part of my training.”
“No!” Otter and I both shout as he starts to reach under Megan’s hospital gown.
“That’s not necessary,” I add hastily.
They both grin at me.
“You’re fucking with us,” I accuse them.
“A little,” Megan admits, a look of slight discomfort on her face. “You guys are acting so tense. It’s starting to stress me out a little.”
“Don’t be tense,” Marty says. “We need to maintain positive vibes in here. Maybe we should sing a happy song that will make everyone feel better.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m not going to do that.”
“Otter?” Marty asks.
Otter looks at me. Then at Marty. Then back at me. “It could make everyone happy.”
I glare at him.
“But maybe next time,” Otter tells Marty.