The Perfect Time To Recount My Daughter’s Birth Story In Gory Detail Is While You’re Racing Against The Clock Trying To Stuff A Turkey

Rochelle E. Fisher
Published in
3 min readNov 23, 2022

Image by author via iStock

Hey, thanks for having me over! I know I’m insanely early, but don’t mind me. I’m just going to stand here in the kitchen as you fiddle with the turkey. I would offer to help you prep for the thirteen people you invited, but I would just make things worse. So instead, I’m going to tell you Abby’s birth story again in gory detail. You know, she’s turning twelve tomorrow.

I could just give you space and thumb through the magazines you put on the coffee table as a stall tactic, but I think you’d rather me follow you around and remind you, as you add liquid to the roasting pan, that no one ever experienced a labor like mine! I was induced, for one thing, because of high blood pressure. I must have been stressing about all the people coming for Thanksgiving that year. That was the last time I hosted. I just couldn’t deal with all the prep.

Sure, I could help you chop celery for the stuffing, but I’d much rather lean against your fridge so you have to ask me to move as I tell you how–get this–the doctor said I was twelve centimeters dilated. Twelve! Have you ever heard of such a thing? I need to pull out this chair and sit in the middle of your kitchen as you dash around me for utensils to steady myself. My legs are getting all wobbly just thinking about the stretching pain of my va-jay-jay.

Ok, I’m lying in the bed, dying for an epidural and they tell me — no, it’s too late! Let me demonstrate the position I was in. Do you mind seasoning the string beans there on the table instead? I need to hoist myself up onto your island and pretend I’m in my birthing bed for the full effect. This pumpkin here will be perfect up my dress to simulate a pregnant belly. And this cranberry sauce will just have to stand in for all the blood.

Yes, I meant to spill the gravy all over your floor, just like it happened when my membranes ruptured. There was meconium in the water. That’s preborn baby shit.

You seem very stressed because you’re screaming “PULL UP YOUR PANTS AND GET OUT OF MY KITCHEN.” I know seven hours of prep is getting to you. But now, your nervous energy is also affecting me. So I’m going to make myself some…

Rochelle E. Fisher

Top writer in Satire & Parenting, Rochelle's words can be found in McSweeney’s, Slackjaw, The Belladonna, Points in Case, Weekly Humorist, Frazzled, and others.