by Nancy Canfield

Created on: July 22, 2009

I never had any children. I figured I was much too selfish to devote myself to kids, and my sister justified my decision by having a couple that I could borrow and return when I was at the point of putting a gun to my head. My influence on their lives is questionable. I like to think of myself as "Auntie Mame", while they show tendencies of singing "Ding Dong the Witch Is Dead" at my funeral. It's probably somewhere in the middle.

When my niece asked me to accompany her to a birthing class (because her doctor insisted), coffee spurted out of my nose. Then I thought, "What the hell. It's the closest I'll ever come to having a kid." Turns out she had been putting classes off for a while, and consequently we had missed the meat of the instructions. We attended two of the last three.

Concentrating on the remaining classes was not an option for me as I spent a lot of time looking sideways at the large posters of the birthing process. Huge posters. Massive posters. It was like I was in some perverted modern art museum with walls splattered with ladies vaginas shaped like Texas. I sure hoped she was paying attention, because I never heard a word. We never got to the last class because as I was driving to pick her up, some dufus hit my little car head on with a big old Buick. I hobbled around for the next month until the call came.

Coach Mame was summoned to the hospital. By the time I arrived, her room was filled with family and friends. I couldn't tell you exactly who was there because I was enthralled with the "unit". The room was huge, and nicely equipped with stereo and head phones, television, recliners, private bath and Jacuzzi. I was fascinated with what looked like a deformed Lazy Boy sofa bed that could be magically transformed into a comfy gynecologist's table. It was eight o'clock PM, and I was thinking she could have waited until morning.

In about half an hour, the nurse cleared the room. I tried to sneak out with the rest of them to catch a nap, but I was cornered by a nurse that looked a lot like Baby Jane Hudson. She ordered me to keep an eye on the monitor, because it wouldn't be long before I would be able to show her what I had learned in birthing class. Close up she reminded me of a seagull and I felt like a clam.

My niece was looking a little uncomfortable. I told her to suck it up, and played with the bed controls until the stirrups got stuck straight up in the air. Another nurse came in and suggested we take a walk. That perked me up. I

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