On Saturday I attended the baby shower of Kelly, one of my Fancy Friends. We are due right around the same time so it was nice because I was able to steal, err, share, her limelight.
Every time she had a few too many people gathered around paying attention to her I would stand on my chair and announce:
Hey people! You think SHE'S pregnant and interesting - well look at THIS! Then I would lift up my skirt and shimmy my glitter encrusted belly back and forth while spotlighting it with a couple of flashlights.
Of course a natural and popular topic of conversation at a baby shower is babies. More specifically, how our own babies came into the world. I think I told the story of my labor and delivery with Ellie around 200 times and listened to others recount theirs just as many.
I felt sorry for the non-baby people there because when the labor topic would come up their eyes would glaze over with "oh my god are these losers SERIOUSLY talking about this again" and then they would silently back away and congregate together near the back of the room talking about things that really matter, like toast.
The funny thing about labor stories is that these girls are my friends - it's not like I was meeting anyone for the first time. I've heard the same stories over and over, so many times that I can tell you with amazing accuracy the down-to-the-minute details of each and every one of their deliveries.
And I love it.
Mainly because delivering a baby is a big freaking deal. I mean, in the category of superhuman. And superhumans are entitled to some mad bragging rights and the most important thing you need when bragging about yourself is a captive audience and a forum, which the baby shower conveniently provides.
But there's another reason I like to hear these stories. In my twisted, demented little mind I'm in some sort of sick labor competition with every other woman who has ever lived.
Oh, you had to have your water broken? Yeah, mine broke on its own. (I win)
Oh, you went into labor on your own? Yeah, I had to be induced. (I lose)
Oh, you didn't get an epidural? Yeah, I had one after eight hours. (You. Little. Bitch. The No Epidural Trump Card. Now wipe that little smirk off your face while I try to find something I can beat you at. Umm, your ass is bigger. There.)
I know I'm not the only one who plays the I Win At Labor game. Why else would anyone give a shit how many centimeters dilated you were when you got to the hospital? Because they are sizing you up, that's why. You are the enemy.
Which is why I'm taking my upcoming labor so seriously. Everything must go perfectly. I know I'm going to be sharing every last detail with friends as well as strangers over and over and there's a lot of tough competition out there.
I must win.