The entire time I was pregnant, I worried about my delivery day.
The number one thing I didn't want to do while giving birth was poop on everyone and everything in sight. I had nightmares about pooping everywhere, on blankets and nurses, my doctor and even my own child.
It all stems back to my own neurotic craziness involving pooping - and yes, I know everyone poops shut up already about it. I don't like poop. I don't like the thought of poop, the smell of poop, the act of pooping itself, end of story. Why I chose to become a parent, I'll never know, because there's mountains of poop, piled ten miles high into the sky. (Side note: technically I didn't choose to become a parent, parenting chose me freshman year, first semester of college! oops!)
Anyways, on the the good stuff, the poop.
There I was on my "birthing" day, sprawled out across the table, focused and ready. I'd waited 39 long weeks to meet this little gal, and in a few moments, she'd be here for the rest of my life. The doctor came in, the signal was given, and the pushing commenced.
And so did the pooping.
I pooped everywhere, as if my nightmare had come to life. They kept changing the "puppy pads" underneath my butt. And they kept changing, and they kept changing, and they kept changing.
Poop, wipe, rinse, repeat.
I was so wrapped up in the pooping, I almost forgot about the birthing that was happening. But finally, there she was, all 7 lbs. of glorious, fuzzy, baby beauty. And next to her, in the bucket that housed all the the other gruesome dealings of birth...
There it was, all 3 lbs. of glorious, fuzzy, mommy poop.
