The day I went into labor was just like any other late-term pregnancy day. Suckass.
I spent my morning pondering the mystery of an enormously bloaty overnight weight gain of 6 pounds. I mean, surely dipping warm chocolate chip cookies into kosher salt flakes didn’t warrant that extreme of a reaction. Right?
My afternoon was spent lying uncomfortably on the bed while actually moaning out loud “Why me? Why me? Why me?” over and over again, until I had sufficiently annoyed Jim, the person who had impregnated me with crippling heartburn, sleepless nights, constipation and, oh yeah, a baby. So like I said before, just a typical day in the life of a knocked-up waterlogged mess who thought she was still a week away from dropping the biggest load of her life. Emphasis on the word “thought.”
Around 3, I got a phone call from my pal Jean, inviting me to be her date to a badass rock n’ roll birthday party that night. I was happy to accept! Surely I didn’t need to spend another Friday night coming up with new and creative ways to make Jim suffer. I already had a list a mile long!
And besides, "Medium" was a rerun that night, and I had long grown tired of watching asshole kids on "Supernanny" doing their damnedest to convince me to get a late-term abortion. The party sounded much more fun!
Jean picked me up at my house around 7. The moment we arrived, I was bombarded with jokes about how I was going to go into labor at the party. “Ha ha ha!” I fakely laughed for the umpteenth time.
“No, no,” I assured them “my due date’s still a week away.” And everyone knows due dates are totally set in stone. Duh! I sat my bloated ass down next to my soon-to-be hero, badass mama Lindsey who was there with her one-year-old baby girl, Bandit. Yup. Bandit. She was sitting with her pal, a very shy Frances Cobain. I played it cool (I think?), and then Lindsey and I talked about what assholes every other mom in the world was. I silently dreamed that Frances Bean would chime in with her own stories, but she just sweetly laughed at whatever we were saying.
Lindsey encouraged me to try her strawberry-infused gin drinks. Someone was kind enough to bring me a plate of ham and monkey bread, and I honestly at that moment couldn’t remember a time I was ever happier. I was actually having fun. I was a gleeful little piggy cannibalistically chowing down on honey-coated pork, intoxicated by a single sip of gin and thrilled by the promise of more monkey bread. Fuck water weight!
Feeling magnanimous, I instructed everyone that there was no need to refrain from smoking marijuana in the general backyard area where I was sitting. I was in the fucking cool mom club now!
I excused myself to go to the ladies room, as I inflicted upon everyone the disturbing image of a hugely pregnant woman trying to safely navigate herself out of a low-seated cheap plastic lawn chair. I imagined myself looking like the hippo ballerinas from Fanatasia, only much less elegant. Save my seat! I instructed. A burlesque performance was about to start and chairs would surely become highly coveted.
The bathroom was occupied. So I waited outside. That’s when I felt a little wetness seep into my crotch. You know that feeling when you get your period unexpectedly and you feel the rush of wetness push through your pubes? It was like that. Only not as thick.
What the fuck? Did I just piss myself? Has my vagina gone numb from the weight of the baby pushing down on it and I can no longer feel piss coming out anymore? Is this what things have come to? The party host, Chili, opened the bathroom door. I’m sure we said something to each other, but all I can remember was wanting to get into that bathroom and inspect the water damage to my pants. Luckily, it was just a small spot. I blotted the piss stain best I could, then positioned my pants in a way that concealed the watermark.
As I exited the bathroom, I was surprised by a second, much larger gush. I ran right back into the bathroom. There was no amount of camel toe that could block the view of that stain. “WTF is happening?” I dumbly thought to myself, despite the fact that I was about to burst child from my womb any day now. I knew I couldn’t stay in the bathroom forever or people might start thinking I had stopped up the john with a toilet paper shit stew.
I left the bathroom and walked into the kitchen. Chili was there, as was the burlesque dancer who was changing in the corner. There really isn’t much else to say when you walk into a room with a soaking wet crotch, but still, I tried to be polite about it.
“Do you have an old towel or something you don’t mind getting soiled?” I asked calmly. Chili looked at me wide-eyed. She asked me if my water had broken. I rambled on about how low the statistics are for that actually happening. She just stared at me in horror.
Sopping up my juices, reeeeal elegant-like.
“People think it happens all the time because of the movies. ‘Clean up in aisle four!’ But it’s actually very rare. I probably just pissed myself,” I reassured her as if that was the less humiliating option. My lame ramble was interrupted by yet another gush. I was like a piece of amniotic Freshen-Up gum. She ran to the other room and rushed back in holding a large towel.
I quickly stuck it under my ass and sat on one of her 1950s vinyl dinette chairs.
“I’ll get this dry-cleaned for you,” I promised. “You can just keep it,” she wisely replied before asking me if I wanted her to get Lindsey. “Ummmm,” I pondered. “It’s probably fine.” Another huge gush. “Yeah, I guess it couldn’t hurt to ask her what she thought.” I sat calmly on my absorbent nest waiting for some answers, goddamn it!
Lindsey came in. I told her what had happened and she, no shit, confirmed that yes it seemed my water had broken. I was super-bummed about having to leave the party. Thanks a lot, baby! I asked her if she could get my friend, Jean.
In mere seconds, shit got chaotic, people seemed slightly panicked, and before I knew it, the kitchen was filled with excited party guests surrounding me as I gushed womb juices on a borrowed towel. I have to admit it was nice to be the center of attention even if it was for something so foul. I waited as Jean gathered our things. Everyone hung on every single one of my gush reports.
“Whoa! That’s definitely not urine!” I would say, as if it was a good thing. The only blight on my spotlight moment was the sad sack burlesque dancer pouting in the corner. It must be hard when the opening act steals the show.
“Sorry, bitch, I’m a tough act to follow,” I thought, smugly. Seeing someone’s tassled titties kind of loses its punch after seeing a real live pussy geyser.
Jean informed me that we were ready to go. I waved goodbye to everyone as I waddled to the car with a heavy wet towel between my legs. I felt good knowing that I had surely given them one of the most exciting nights of their lives. They would tell stories about me, the weirdo mom-to-be who calmly made everyone laugh by telling inappropriate jokes as amniotic fluid leaked out of her.
‘Cause that’s how fucking cool moms roll!