How Not to Calm a Child on a Plane Read Online Free

the room. As she passes the camera, it is clear that she is crying.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  5.    And in the most clear indication that the shit is hitting the fan, the Austin Powers dvd is turned off.
    The doctor says loudly and quite clearly that this baby has to come out now and that he is going to insert some sort of vacuum device inside my vagina to help ease her out. I say, “Okay,” but when I see the size of the device, it seems as doable as trying to fit a frisbee into a jar of mustard.
    More pushing and grunting and pushing and grunting, and then in an instant I feel the heat of a thousand suns in my nethers. And that’s the moment that I become fully educated as to the precision of an epidural, i.e., it dulls sensation completely—but only up to a point. One millimeter beyond that, there is absolute, total, full-blownfeeling. I have just gone, sensation-wise, from zero to YAAAAARRRGHHHHH !!!
    (Much has been said about the noises that emanate/emerge/pour forth from a woman in labor. Having been raised on the Canadian prairies, I can say with authority that what I most sounded like in that moment was an angry moose about to crap a full-grown bear.)
    And FLOP! out comes the kid, like a flying fish jumping into a rowboat. And in an instant, watching that video, I know exactly why we taped it. Because that moment is pure magic. She wasn’t there . . . and then, she was. It didn’t matter how it happened, whether naturally or with drugs or by hypnosis or silent chanting or with a set of pneumatic vacuum tubes like the ones they used to have at drive-thrus in the ’70s. The only thing that matters is she’s here.
    That moment was—and still is, as pictured here on my computer screen—pure, breathtaking magic.
    And then some more gross stuff comes out, and suddenly it’s a party all over again. The grandma is laughing, the in-laws barge in, cameras start flashing . . .
    In the video, the husband is rubbing my arm and kissing me. I am smiling and crying. He leans over and says over and over again, “She’s perfect . . . She’s perfect . . .”
    Just watching it on my computer makes me tear up. I look at my husband sitting next to me, glassy-eyed and beaming at the video screen. I smile at him and say the only thing that makes sense:
    â€œYOU SAPPY BASTARD!!”

    * I accidentally clicked on it while searching my computer for a video of a penguin shoving another penguin into an ice hole. The screen grabs were eerily similar.
    * Also, if I’m being totally honest, I’m pretty sure I went along with the whole thing just to impress that one guy in English class who could really work a pair of Hammer pants. Though why I thought that shuffling across the stage like a chicken would impress a thirteen-year-old guy—your guess is as good as mine.
    * And if you know what that is, then I apologize for putting that visual in your brain.
    * FIRST(!)
    * One of several comedy movies packed into our “birthing bag”; other movies included Napoleon Dynamite, Anchorman , and Raising Arizona , just in case it’s true that, as Linneah said, “laughter is conducive to a painless labor.” Other packed items included: one yoga ball upon which to bounce/relax/roll around to help ease contractions and to serve as a conversation starter with hospital staff (“Why, yes, I do yoga. I pretty much kill at Tree Pose”); one pair of flannel pajamas featuring an ironic cartoon skull pattern to indicate that even though I’m now a mom, I’m still hip and relevant; an iPod loaded with ten-plus hours of hypnobirthing audio tracks; and a selection of books and magazines to enjoy during all that “downtime” I was sure to have.
    * “Vagisthesia.” You’re welcome.

three
    SPOILED MILK
    M y breasts * have always been my best quality.
    I’m not bragging when I say that; they’re just great relative to the rest of my