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
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…
