While I have always adored babies – you can usually find me snuggling with one whenever given the opportunity – the idea of being responsible for nurturing and growing another human being has always been absolutely terrifying.

Labor and delivery had not scared me much until my nephew was born.  In the past, I had visited a number of friends in the hospital shortly after their deliveries.  Other than looking sleepy and a tad bit parched, their bodies had not really appeared to have gone through hours of screaming and pushing – in short, massive trauma.  They had hidden from me the world of episiotomies, incontinence, hemorrhoids, vagina-numbing sprays, and adult diapers.  Instead they handed me their newborns and in between coos would look at me and say, “When’s your turn?  Don’t you want a little darling of your own?”

When I visited my sister, the room looked nothing short of a crime scene.  She looked like she had been punched in the face several times and laid there almost lifeless.  In between the gasps and fainting spells she looked over at me and said more than once, “Have ‘em young.”

I gave her a “you must be clinically insane” look and decided it was not time to go off the pill just yet.  If I had anything to say about it, I was going to try to preserve my private parts just a little longer.

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