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satisfaction, smacked my lips, and asked what was around for dessert.
    Nearing the due date, we had friends with no children tell us they were pretty sure that having a baby was like having a puppy. They had recently purchased a 10 week old yellow lab, and boy had life changed dramatically. The wee thing howled all night and wasn't housebroken, so made messes all over the place. To top it all off, she chewed on everything. Ruined a pair of Dolce & Gabbana heels, could you believe it? Sighing and shaking their heads, they described the responsibility which, by the way, was daunting: You had to make sure she got enough exercise, food (the right kind of food), and discipline because there was no such thing as a bad dog, only bad owners. How much different could a baby be, they asked?
    The only thing similar between giving birth and acquiring a puppy, I thought as I lay on a bed in the delivery room like an overturned turtle, was that every time I had a contraction I felt like howling. Or barking. Maybe even biting. I was 2½ weeks late with no signs that the baby intended to do any sort of passage-making. In an attempt to encourage an exit, I had spent those weeks jumping on the bed, jogging, and eating tacos with hot sauce. The jogging in particular seemed to entertain the small town we lived in who insisted on making such comments as “you still around?” and “boy are you ever huge” as I pounded by on the sidewalk. It was fortunate for them that I owned neither a mallet, nor a gun.
    Lying in the hospital, imagining what was to come, I wished there was some way to avoid the inevitable. Some ejection button I had missed all those months. It didn't help to hear the screams of the woman giving birth down the hall who kept yelling out things in Portuguese. Each time she would explode in verbiage, Mike would offer a translation like: “Oh! Giving birth is SO much FUN!” and “PLEASE, stay inside me little longer!” It helped as a distraction, but I knew there was no getting off the delivery train. My course was set with no emergency exits.
    After 24 hours of various measures, including forceps and me pushing for almost two hours, I heard things whispered like “failure to progress” and “C-section.” With considerable pomp and circumstance I was rushed to the operating room and minutes later, had instant baby girl. They placed her briefly on my chest, serene and swaddled tightly in a white blanket. Her eyes were shut. I reached out to touch her cheek, but barely had time to hug her to me before she was scooped up and placed in Mike's arms. I launched a weak protest, but they explained that they would take me into the recovery room for observation.
    I was exhausted, but steamed. I was thinking how typical this was of my life lately. I got sick for three months, gave up my body, gained a kazillion pounds, and every one of my orifices had been poked and prodded. I then spent 24 hours in pain and pushing only to see the end result for about 30 seconds before she was handed over to Mike, who had just enjoyed a nice hospital breakfast complete with coffee and sausage. I was allowed ice chips. While I had to be in the recovery room, he would get to enjoy her for the rest of the day.
    Before the drowsiness engulfed me, I reached out my hand and weakly grabbed the collar of the nurse who was taking my blood pressure and twisted it up in my fist. I pulled her face down close to mine and hissed, “You can be sure I intend to take this up with management. It is completely unfair. Someone will pay.” Then I slept.
    Later on that day, the same nurse came in and after checking my vitals, told me what I said. It had amused her and the other nurses. I didn't recall saying it. All of it was forgotten as Mike and I bent over the bassinette and gazed at the alien we called Lauren. We were co-conspirators in creation and heady with the drug of happiness. I tried to sculpt the moment into a