Futures and Frosting

“The baby’s out! And it’s a girl!” the doctor exclaims. “Get your picture, Dad!”

Carter jumps up and holds the camera above his head, quickly snapping a picture before sitting right back down and raining kisses all over my face while I cry.

“A girl? Are you sure? Is she okay?” I ask through my tears.

The next sound we hear is the wail of a healthy set of baby lungs.

Carter laughs through his own tears and continues kissing away mine.

“Oh, baby, you did it! I’m so proud of you. We have a girl!”

The anesthesiologist makes some adjustments to my I.V. now that the baby is out, and I momentarily wonder if would be okay for me to just start chanting “Morphine, morphine, morphine!” really loudly.

“Come on back, Dad, and see your little girl,” one of the nurses says.

Carter gives me one more kiss on the cheek before he gets up and begins to walk around the I.V. pole to make his way to the end of the operating table.

“Carter, don’t forget, don’t look at my―”

“OH JESUS CHRIST! IS THAT HER INTESTINES?? WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT? OH MY GOD!”

I hear the sounds of tennis shoes squeaking on the floor as nurses most likely race to Carter’s side to get him away from the horror show.

“Oh f**k me, did I just step over a tube of blood that is draining out of her and into a bucket? What the f**k is that for?”

When you have a c-section, there’s not much you can do but lie there and listen to the commotion going on around you. It’s not like you could be all, “Hey, Doc, can you give me a minute? I need to get up and check on my fiancé and make sure he doesn’t puke on our new baby.” I had been given a spinal before this thing which meant I was numb from the neck down. I'm not any good to anyone right now.

“They told you not to look!” I shout to Carter.

“That is the number one thing you should never say to anyone! Of course if you tell me not to look, I’m going to look,” Carter says as his voice gets closer and closer. Oh my God, Claire, I think I saw your spleen sitting on your chest.”

The next thing I know, Carter is right next to me holding a tiny, perfectly wrapped bundle of baby. She looks like a little burrito wrapped tight in her white, blue, and pink hospital blanket and pink baby hat on her head.

Carter brings her right up to me and sets her down on the pillow next to my head so I can kiss her cheek.

“Oh my God, she’s perfect,” I cry as I stare at her sleeping face.

“Well, kind of perfect. I think she has Elephantitis of the vagina though,” Carter tells me quietly.

I laugh and reach an arm over to stroke her soft, pink cheek.

“That’s normal. All babies have enlarged genitalia when they’re born,” one of the nurses says as she walks past us to get something from a drawer against the wall.

“Oh yeah, you should have seen the size of Gavin’s balls when he was born. Jesus. He could have fit a small country into those things,” I say.

“Hey, maybe that’s just the way he was supposed to be born. You know, taking after his father and all,” Carter says as he leans down and kisses our little girl’s cheek before kissing mine.

“Okay, Dad, if you want to go with your little girl down the hall to the nursery you can help give her her first bath and give the good news to your family members,” the doctor says. “We’ll have Claire down in recovery in about forty-five minutes. We just need to sew her up.”

A nurse comes and scoops up our little girl and places her in the bassinet with a sign on the end that reads “Sophia Elizabeth Ellis, 7lbs, 10oz.”

I refuse a Sopranos name, but I concede by letting Carter pick an Italian name.

“I love you so much,” Carter tells me, cupping his hand on my cheek and leaning over my head to kiss my lips upside down.

I turn my head to the side and watched the love of my life walk behind the bassinet that holds our new daughter.

When they are gone, I close my eyes and try to enjoy the morphine coursing through my veins and count all of the amazing blessings I have been given. Unfortunately, I keep losing count. As the doctor sews me up, he and the nurses count out loud and it's very distracting. I had asked during Gavin’s c-section what the hell they were doing and I was told that they have to count all of the instruments and sponges to make sure none are left behind. At the time, I thought it would be funny to start saying random numbers out loud to see if it would break their concentration. Two, seven, one, fifteen, thirty-five. But then I had realized it wasn't as funny if it was my body cavity they were losing these things in. It’s hilarious when it’s someone else, not so much if I have to go back to the hospital six months later because there’s a pair of scissors stuck to my kidney or I’m shitting out sponges.

I block out the incessant drone of counting and think about just how perfect my life is now. I can’t wait for Gavin to meet his new little sister, and I am actually excited to show her off to Carter’s parents. It's a toss-up though on whether or not I'm so happy because I know the next four days will be spent getting waited on hand and foot with morphine and vicodin to cheer me up should I ever feel like slitting my own wrists.

The man I love more than anything wants to marry me, we have an amazing little boy who keeps us on our toes, a new, healthy baby girl, and the best family and friends. Okay, maybe not the best. Tolerable. Life is good. Nothing can take this feeling away right now unless the anesthesiologist turns off my morphine drip. I’ll just take away his manhood if that happens. I’m sure the doctor can find an extra scalpel in my intestines for me. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">