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No Epidural: Sibling Violence Did Us Well

No Epidural: Sibling Violence Did Us Well

FRED CALLED ME THIS MORNING AND TOLD ME HER WATER BROKE AND SHE IS GOING INTO LABOR!

I am beyond psyched. Yet nervous. Not about to tell her the latter or I’d get a face like this:

that broad is scary

that broad on the right is scary

You can do it, Fred, you can do it, you can do it, you can do it!

We’ve both affirmed that the other can handle labor, no problem; after all, we achieved our high pain thresholds from beating the tar out of each other, no mercy involved, as children. And teens. And, okay, well into our college years. Regardless of the myriad bruises, bloody gashes, and high kicks to the boobs (is that why so many college boys lingered outside our shared cell?), I cannot help but wonder what labor is going to feel like.

You can do it, Fred, you can do it, you can do it, you can do it!

Right?

As any pregnant gal does, we have to believe the answer is yes.

So we can both handle a couple cracked bones here and there, but Fred and I, pregnant identical twins, are quite different from one another. Other than the hair we’ve bullied into unnatural colors since middle school as to differentiate ourselves from one another, some of our personality traits are dark and light, night and day, too.

We’re both thrilled that you’re here, seeking to relate, learn (?), or at least kill time on our little sphere of online desolation. In case you’re curious who is behind the screen, let me enlighten you a bit via a metaphor and bit of reminiscing:

One twin is a peacekeeper; the other twin is a Pit Bull in a cat lady’s house. Elaboration:

Off Route 66, in the place of rote memorization and unparalleled psychological scarring, I, Zeke, was threatened with a plate of spaghetti from an upperclassman. I know, AHHH! is right, people; it was utterly terrifying, I tell you, truly truly terrifying. At the lunch table among my friends I smiled and nodded, wanting not to upset anybody or encourage my scrapper sister to react. Fred of course picked up on the subtle scent of unease in my heavily Victoria’s Secret-scented direction, and, in her fluffy ruffly pink skirt and wedge heels, marched over to the upperclassman’s lunch table and picked Upperclassman up by her shirt collar. Yes, just as the angry men do in the movies.

I don’t think Fred even broke a nail.

In such a situation, one might think the principal of the school would intervene, especially if he’s standing at the head of the cafeteria, his hands on his hips, squint trained on Fred’s warpath. But between the fist-pounds to the table and chants of Fred’s name, Principal remained a stone wall. Maybe the teachers and administrators didn’t intervene in these scenarios (yeah, that’s plural—scenarios) because my sister only brought out the iron fist when somebody was bullying somebody else. Greeeeat bullying plan: Every school should have a deeply psychologically disturbed ogre (kidding, Fred; that’s for you calling me a Barbie . . .) masquerading as homecoming court.

Or, who knows. Maybe faculty was privy to the rumor about what happened between Heels and my sister’s cheating ex’s gonads.

A few years after the serenity of high school, ReginaGeorgeFred got a root canal. She passed out. I guess that’s what happens when you get a root canal without even local anesthetics.

As far as doing without numbness in cannoning a baby out of our lady goods, we both agree on this one:

No epidurals.

Sure, many a woman has benefited from the veil of numbness and would do it again. But, as a former nurse, I can’t stomach—spine?—the thought of epidural misplacement. Unless you’re akin to our farm-raised twin-birthing mother who went without an epidural and got an episiotomy without anesthetic (what is with my family?), probably most moms don’t hop off their birthing bed and trot around. But did you know some post-delivery moms will never get up again?

How’s that for fear tactic?

Absolutely it’s about as slim a percentage of women who will never walk again after a misplaced epidural (anesthesiologist sneezes at just the wrong time . . .) as it is women yearning to look like Jack Black. But the risk? Neither of us is willing to take it.

So bring on the pain. Hopefully it’s comparable to the time Fred lobbed me across the dorm room and shattered my—

Yeah.

I think we can do this.

Come on, Fred! You can do it, you can do it, you can do it, you can do it!

mom

Did you get an epidural? What was your birthing experience like? Has your sibling ever karate-chopped your eyeballs?

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