Splat!

"Forty two years ago today I was pushing hard. In labour. And after many painful hours, my daughter was born", my sexagenarian co-worker told me as I sipped my morning coffee.

My co-worker, on the brink of retirement but still as feisty as she was the day she turned twenty-one, had become increasingly open about her personal history as of late. She was born in Columbia, raised in New Orleans, had been divorced once, was in constant conflict with her son-in-law, and was a very proud mother of fraternal twins. Today, the glimpse into her personal life becomes even more vivid.

"The nurse kept on yelling at me. 'Push! Push harder!' He was yelling and yelling. 'Harder! You've got to get that baby out! Push harder!'" she continued.

Talk of birthing babies always makes me squirm: To much bodily fluid with names that are sanitized from unappealing medical language into clever street slang.

"I was so mad at him. Oh! how I hated him! He kept yelling and yelling. And then I started to punch him. Right in the chest. Oh! I was so angry with him! I just wanted him to shut up! But he kept on saying 'Push!', 'The water's got to break.' Oh, and then..." Here I see her smile as she speaks. "When my water did finally break... Oh! My water broke and burst out and hit him all over his sorry face."

I want to vomit. Giving birth to new human life is beautiful in theory, not in practice.

Her smile is broad.

"I was so happy I got him. All over his face! Serves him right for being such an ass."