Page 238 of The Virgin Romance Novelist Chronicles
“Spotted Henry in the cafeteria and decided to smoke a cigar with him outside. You know, men shit.”
“Ah yes, because the man did all the work, therefore he should smoke the cigar.” I lean forward. “I’m going to let you in on a little secret. The woman should be the one smoking a freaking cigar after childbirth. Do you know what it’s like to shove a motorcycle helmet through a quarter? It’s not pretty.” I pretend to smoke a cigar, puffing into the air. “I could really use something to help forget the moment of pure terror when I knew I was going to need stitches.”
“Oh God, was it that bad?”
I snap my head to the side, facing Delaney, and point to my eye. “Do you see this? This is called a broken blood vessel . . . in my eyeball. I was pushing so hard, I broke a blood vessel.”
“Were you trying to push him out of your eyeball?” She laughs at her piss-poor attempt at a joke.
“You think that’s funny?” I sit up and get serious. “You know how all those classes in school talk about safe sex and how a baby will change your life if you don’t use birth control?” She wearily nods. “Do you know what they don’t tell you?”
She sits back in her chair. “Uh, that some women contract a serious case of the scary after giving birth?”
“No!” In one swoop, I fling my blankets to the side and lift up my hospital gown. “What they don’t tell you is that you won’t stop bleeding. It’s like nine months worth of menstrual cycle all flowing at once. I’m wearing a goddamn diaper, Delaney.” I point to my crotch. “A diaper!”
Delaney’s eyes narrow in and a look of both disgust and confusion collides simultaneously. “You gave birth yesterday . . .”
“And yet, here I am”—I gesture my arm to my hospital roompalace—“un-showered, lying on a lumpy mattress, with a grown-ass diaper strapped around my waist because every time I shift, something falls out of me.”
“Oh God.” Delany covers her mouth.
“And that’s not even the worst of it.” I look at the ceiling as I speak, settling back into a relaxed position. “They don’t tell you about the stitches, or having to give birth to a human organ that you grew expertly inside of you, or . . .”
I bite on my lip.
“Or what?” Delany asks, horror in her face.
“No, I can’t say it.”
Delaney places her hand on my arm. “Rosie, you can tell me anything.”
I bite my bottom lip, contemplating if I should share my greatest humiliation. “I don’t think I can.”
“If anything, educate me. I need to know in case Derk and I ever have kids.”
I nod, knowing this information is vital, woman to woman. Taking a deep breath, I slowly let the air expel from my lungs before saying, “He saw.”
“He saw what? Your vagina?”
“Of course he saw my vagina, but he saw way more than that.”
“The baby’s head crowning.”
I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut. “No . . . he saw me poop.”
Silence.
Only the faint sound of monitors beeping trail into the stagnant room, reminding me that I’m not dreaming. That in fact, as I was popping a blood vessel in my eye, while pushing out a nine-pound child—yes, nine pounds—and swearing up a slew of dramatic yet, classy swear words and walloping Henry in the stomach, I . . . pooped.
On a sigh, I whisper, “There is no coming back from that. How on earth will I ever be able to be romantic with the man again when he saw me poop on a bed while I was continuously slapping him in the stomach? Couples don’t bounce back from that easily.”
“Maybe he didn’t see . . .”
“Oh, he saw.” I nod my head and then quietly repeat. “He saw.”
More silence.
Delaney shifts on the chair next to me, leaning back as well and joining me in a gaze at the plain white ceiling. “But you have a baby boy now.”
