“OH JESUS CHRIST!  IS THAT HER INTESTINES??  WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?  OH MY GOD!”

I hear the sounds of tennis shoes squeaking on the floor as nurses most likely race to Carter’s side to get him away from the horror show.

“Oh fuck me, did I just step over a tube of blood that is draining out of her and into a bucket?  What the fuck is that for?”

When you have a c-section, there’s not much you can do but lie there and listen to the commotion going on around you.  It’s not like you could be all, “Hey, Doc, can you give me a minute?  I need to get up and check on my fiancé and make sure he doesn’t puke on our new baby.”  I had been given a spinal before this thing which meant I was numb from the neck down.  I'm not any good to anyone right now.

“They told you not to look!” I shout to Carter.

“That is the number one thing you should never say to anyone!  Of course if you tell me not to look, I’m going to look,” Carter says as his voice gets closer and closer.  Oh my God, Claire, I think I saw your spleen sitting on your chest.”

The next thing I know, Carter is right next to me holding a tiny, perfectly wrapped bundle of baby.  She looks like a little burrito wrapped tight in her white, blue, and pink hospital blanket and pink baby hat on her head.

Carter brings her right up to me and sets her down on the pillow next to my head so I can kiss her cheek.

“Oh my God, she’s perfect,” I cry as I stare at her sleeping face.

“Well, kind of perfect.  I think she has Elephantitis of the vagina though,” Carter tells me quietly.

I laugh and reach an arm over to stroke her soft, pink cheek.

“That’s normal.  All babies have enlarged genitalia when they’re born,” one of the nurses says as she walks past us to get something from a drawer against the wall.

“Oh yeah, you should have seen the size of Gavin’s balls when he was born.  Jesus.  He could have fit a small country into those things,” I say.

“Hey, maybe that’s just the way he was supposed to be born.  You know, taking after his father and all,” Carter says as he leans down and kisses our little girl’s cheek before kissing mine.

“Okay, Dad, if you want to go with your little girl down the hall to the nursery you can help give her her first bath and give the good news to your family members,” the doctor says.  “We’ll have Claire down in recovery in about forty-five minutes.  We just need to sew her up.”

A nurse comes and scoops up our little girl and places her in the bassinet with a sign on the end that reads “Sophia Elizabeth Ellis, 7lbs, 10oz.”

I refuse a Sopranos name, but I concede by letting Carter pick an Italian name.

“I love you so much,” Carter tells me, cupping his hand on my cheek and leaning over my head to kiss my lips upside down.

I turn my head to the side and watched the love of my life walk behind the bassinet that holds our new daughter.

When they are gone, I close my eyes and try to enjoy the morphine coursing through my veins and count all of the amazing blessings I have been given.  Unfortunately, I keep losing count.  As the doctor sews me up, he and the nurses count out loud and it's very distracting.  I had asked during Gavin’s c-section what the hell they were doing and I was told that they have to count all of the instruments and sponges to make sure none are left behind.  At the time, I thought it would be funny to start saying random numbers out loud to see if it would break their concentration.  Two, seven, one, fifteen, thirty-five.  But then I had realized it wasn't as funny if it was my body cavity they were losing these things in.  It’s hilarious when it’s someone else, not so much if I have to go back to the hospital six months later because there’s a pair of scissors stuck to my kidney or I’m shitting out sponges.

I block out the incessant drone of counting and think about just how perfect my life is now.  I can’t wait for Gavin to meet his new little sister, and I am actually excited to show her off to Carter’s parents.  It's a toss-up though on whether or not I'm so happy because I know the next four days will be spent getting waited on hand and foot with morphine and vicodin to cheer me up should I ever feel like slitting my own wrists.

The man I love more than anything wants to marry me, we have an amazing little boy who keeps us on our toes, a new, healthy baby girl, and the best family and friends.  Okay, maybe not the best.  Tolerable.  Life is good.  Nothing can take this feeling away right now unless the anesthesiologist turns off my morphine drip.  I’ll just take away his manhood if that happens.  I’m sure the doctor can find an extra scalpel in my intestines for me.

“Wow, would you take a look at that?” I hear the doctor say.

“Oh my,” one of the nurses replies.

“Uh, what’s going on?” I ask.

“Can someone get me a camera?”

Okay, that’s not something you need to hear when your stomach is cut open and you’re strapped to a table.

Someone take this mother fucking sheet down.  I don’t give a rat’s ass if I can see right through my stomach and out my vagina.  I’ll even help you stuff shit back in.

I can hear some whispering, which makes me a little uncomfortable.  I mean, what could they possibly be whispering about?  Is there another baby in there no one knew about?  Have they found an extra stomach?  Maybe I'm supposed to be a twin and I ate her.  Have they found my twin sister?  Is she looking at them right now like, “What the fuck, people?  Get me the hell out of here.  I’m twenty-five and I’m the size of a fist.  Do I look like I’m comfortable?”

I have always wanted a sister.  I can carry her around in my purse like Paris Hilton carries her dog.  I can perch her up on my shoulder and she can be like the good angel telling me what decisions I should make.

What if she’s mean though?  Twenty-five years is a long time to be in someone’s stomach.  Jesus himself would probably even drop a few F bombs about that nonsense.  She might sit on my shoulder and just shout insults at everyone.

“You’re tired?  Fuck you.  I’ve used a uterus as a pillow for twenty five years.”

“I’ve taken dumps bigger than your penis.  And I had to do it in a stomach with a baby looking at me.”

“You’re so ugly I wouldn’t even let you fuck my tiny, fossilized punany.”

 Mmmmm, this morphine is delicious.  Like pot cookies and vodka but without all the weird side effects like hallucinations and crazy talk.  I love morphine.  It’s so pretty.

“Oh, no worries,” the doctor finally answers.  “Your uterus is just in a weird shape right now.  We have a wall of pictures in my office of people’s organs and it’s kind of like when you look up at the sky and guess what a cloud looks like.  Except we do it in my office with pictures of afterbirth and uteruses.  I’m just going to take a quick Polaroid and then finish sewing you up.”

Nope, that’s not at all weird.  Doc, can you supersize that morphine for me?

“So, what does it look like?” I asked.

I don’t really want to know the answer to this do I?  The drugs say yes but the brain says no.

“It actually looks like a face.  And it’s smiling at us.”

OH MY GOD, SISSY!  I’m coming for you sissy!

“HOLY SHIT!”

Epilogue

“I think this will be the first bubble bath I’ve taken alone in three years,” I tell Carter as he sets a glass of wine on the edge of the tub and bends down for a kiss.

I wrap a wet hand around the back of his neck and hold his face to mine.  He sweeps his tongue through my mouth and I taste the wine he had taken a sip of before he gave the glass to me.  Even after all these years I can never get enough of kissing this man.  It's our third wedding anniversary and a few months after Sophie’s third birthday.  For the past three years, we've spent our anniversary the same way – at home with the kids.  And I wouldn’t have it any other way.  We don’t need a fancy restaurant or a night out with friends. We have all we need right here.