Warning: This post will focus solely on the topics of poop and flatulence. You’ve been warned.
So we’re driving back home yesterday and I’m telling Mr. Aggie about how I’m still really worried about pooping on the table during delivery. Tearing? No problem. Bursting blood vessels in my eyes from pushing too hard? Bring it on. Having a little dingleberry slip out? Hell no. Sign me up for the elective c-section now.
This is, seriously, my biggest labor fear. It is followed closely by the certain mortification of flatulating on said table. That is a virtual guarantee, given the circumstances, so I’ve decided to dwell on the pooping delimma. Here’s how the conversation went down:
Me: I’m terrified I’m going to poop on the table, and that you’re going to see it.
Him: I’m not planning on seeing anything, believe me.
Me: Yeah, but in the heat of the moment you might peek and…
Him: And I’ll probably see blood and goo and who knows what else and come running back up where I’m supposed to be. In that situation, I probably wouldn’t even recognize poop anyway.
Me: Well I’ll probably, you know, flatulate too. And no one will be able to deny it or hide it from me or you, because it’s obvious. And stinky.
Him: That’s not true. Your flatulence smells like roses.
And that, internets, is why I married him.