But Megan and Marty just laugh at something we don’t quite understand.

IN THE movies, anytime anyone gives birth, there’s this great big splash of the water breaking, immediate contractions, and the woman is wheeled into the hospital in a wheelchair, clutching her stomach and breathing like she just ran a marathon. Cut to the next scene, and her feet are in stirrups, and everyone is telling her to push, and maybe she’ll get snarky with a really deep voice, demanding a goddamn epidural before she kills someone, and the father of the child will be standing next to her, grimacing as the woman breaks his hand. A few minutes later, the baby comes out, looking sparkling clean with a full head of hair, and the anonymous doctor in scrubs and wearing a mask says, “It’s a boy!” or “It’s a girl!” and then the dad cries and the mom cries and they hug the baby, who appears to actually be a wrinkled burrito, and they all look amazing and live happily ever after.

That is a fucking lie.

Because nothing can prepare you for the reality.

It’s not episiotomies.

It’s not gross fluids.

It’s not cutting an umbilical cord that looks like Italian sausage.

It’s waiting.

For hours.

“You guys look bored,” Megan says, sounding amused as she sits up in her hospital bed. Marty’s rubbing her back like the dutiful partner he is.

Otter and I are sitting in two chairs whose sole purpose seems to be as uncomfortable as possible, possibly to simulate what the woman is experiencing in prelabor. If that’s the case, then it has succeeded immensely, and I hate it. Because we’ve been here for three hours already.

“We’re not bored,” Otter reassures her.

“Definitely not,” I say.

“I mean, you’re giving us children,” Otter says.

“That negates everything else,” I say.

“They’re so bored,” Marty whisper-shouts to Megan.

“Isn’t it cute how they’re trying?” Megan asks him.

“How’s your cervix?” Otter asks her.

I smack him on the arm. “You can’t just ask someone that, Jesus Christ!”

He looks offended. “I’m pretty sure there is no more polite way to ask that.”

“I can find out for you if you’d like,” Marty says. “It’s part of my training.”

“No!” Otter and I both shout as he starts to reach under Megan’s hospital gown.

“That’s not necessary,” I add hastily.

They both grin at me.

“You’re fucking with us,” I accuse them.

“A little,” Megan admits, a look of slight discomfort on her face. “You guys are acting so tense. It’s starting to stress me out a little.”

“Don’t be tense,” Marty says. “We need to maintain positive vibes in here. Maybe we should sing a happy song that will make everyone feel better.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m not going to do that.”

“Otter?” Marty asks.