E and I are having a little bit of a disagreement on delivery room procedure. As my coach, I feel his job is to hold my hand, feed me ice chips and stay near my head. E has decided that he wants to catch. The birthing instructor says it may not matter, since only a couple of the doctors would allow that, and we get whoever happens to be on call when I go into labor. I am fine with husband participation when it comes to being there in the room, cutting the cord, helping to clean and wrap up the baby, whatever. But I would rather he misses the most graphic part of the show. My current plan is to squeeze my legs together really hard until one of the non-catching doctors comes on call.

After four years of marriage, there isn’t that much mystery left. Yesterday I described in detail the weird bump I found on my nipple. The last time I wore eyeliner, E walked in and said “What’s wrong with your face?” We aren’t quite at the pee with the door open stage and I’d like to keep it that way, but I think seeing the actual miracle of birth occur between my legs might push us over that line. I’m not being unfair, I don’t want to see it either. And believe it or not, I still plan to have more children in the future, and conceiving them might be kind of difficult if my husband runs in horror at the thought.

I know I’m being difficult. And I know that since birthin’ babies is what my body is meant to do finding it kind of gross is silly. If someone said “Oh, I don’t want my husband to see me breastfeeding” I would think they were a little shallow and maybe feel sorry that they don’t have as loving and supportive a partner as I do. But my loving, supportive partner is the one who likes to count stretchmarks and thinks the phrase “like throwing a hot dog down a hallway” is hilarious. So lets just agree that keep your eyes and your video camera near my head is the best plan.