Response #730 (leroy) April 1, 1997

 Seventeen years ago this morning I woke up and found myself in labor for the
 first time. I wish I could say that the birth that followed two days later
 was a sacrament, but the truth is I thought that if one more goddamn labor
 coach came at me with one more stupid little spoonful of crushed ice, I was
 going to shove it so far down his throat he'd be shitting Slurpees for a
 week. Not even my wretched memory has been able to erect a gauzy curtain
 around the fact that childbirth is more like a bad dream about a bad train
 wreck on bad acid. But the child! That's the sacrament. Not just the
 perfect, precious little newborn baby that you can hold in the palms of your
 hands, but the great hulking seventeen year old with his bad moods and zits,
 mangy chin stubble and feet the size of Oldsmobiles. It's sort of like the
 wedding vs. the marriage: childbirth is all fireworks and melodrama and
 getting to be Queen For A Day, but it's the day after day after day that's
 the sacrament. And then, where's the coaching team when you *really* need
 them?

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