Creative Writing: My Sister's Baby

My Sister’s Baby

"Shut up. I do not hate babies," my sister responded after I could not hide my astonishment at her announcement. Although my mind was full of visions of her beating me up when I was little and she was in charge, I gave her a hug anyway and told her that I hoped she would be happy. Why not? She was married and financially independent; in fact, her work was extremely important to her. She even invited me into the delivery room as her second coach. Upon first inspection, the room looked nothing like the pea green tiled delivery rooms so often depicted on television. The floors, although scuffed and well used, were hardwood and the walls were lined in soft shades of pink and blue in an attempt to please either sex. There was a pink vinyl couch that folded out into a bed and an inviting wooden rocker for guests. It had the atmosphere of a tacky doctor's office where they try to make you comfortable, but the sheer knowledge of where you are always cancels out all efforts. Even with all attempts the hospital made, the sterility of the room was evident. The hum from the baby monitor served as a constant irritant and occasionally her I.V. monitor would scare us all with its obnoxious warning that her fluids were low. A bright red bin clung to the wall

Every part of me is messed up. Why couldn't God just leave my feet the hell alone," she would explain to anyone who would listen. Usually it was her husband. He would sit solemnly and listen to her go off on tangents, about how man has evolved for thousands of years, but the barbaric art of pregnancy has remained unchanged almost as if he thought it was his penance for putting her in such a predicament. When she would get finished he would just shake his head and rub her on the back. Once he told her he understood. She corrected him very quickly, and he never made that mistake