The Last Breakfast

The morning I got up to give birth, I was very excited.

I was excited:

A. To meet my daughter.

B. To consume the bag of tasty treats I had purchased from the Thrifty's bakery the evening before.


I had a brown paper bag.


Inside was a cranberry bran muffin, a cherry danish and one of those deliciously shitty cheesy-cheese bagels.


There was nothing else in the house to eat except for the tiny bottle of peach Yop in the fridge, which was also to be included in my Last Breakfast.

I had planned this breakfast meal meticulously. For weeks, whenever I had visualized the day I was to be induced, I had included the brown paper bag of tasty treats in my fantasies. Yes, I had said to myself, it will be a perfect morning. I will get up, have a shower, put on my comfy new fleece baby-havin' PJs and sit down at the table with my frightened husband, my Yop and my bag of pastries. I will have myself a plate and on it I will dump the pastry, the muffin and the bagel. I will take bites of each treat whenever I want. Like I'll take a bite of muffin, then a bite of pastry, then a swig of Yop, then another bite of muffin, then some bagel. It will be very pleasing to me, I said to myself. It will all work out very nicely, I said.



I had to be at the hospital at 7:30 to check-in. My mom was coming to pick us up at 7:00. The alarm went off at 6:00.

Frightened Husband had to help yank me out of bed because I was so huge.

Don't fucking yank me so fucking hard, I said, I'm fucking pregnant.

Mellow out, said Frighty with all the sweet gentleness he could muster, I'm trying to help you.

Sorry, I said. Then I started to cry. I'm so fat, I said.

You're pregnant, he said, We're having a baby.

I want my muffin and my danish, I said.

I waddled out to the kitchen. There was the brown paper bag, right where I had left it. I went to it. I picked it up and looked inside.


EVERYTHING WAS FUCKING COVERED IN FUCKING BUGS!


I spent a good long minute staring at them.


Blink, said my eyelids. Blink, blink.

Then my mouth said: I CAAAAAAAAN'T FUUUUUUUUUUUCKING BELIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEVE THIS!

Frightened Husband came running. He had leaped out of the shower soaking wet and was dripping shampoo everywhere.

What's wrong???


I howled. I wailed and howled at this unimaginable injustice from that great, deep lake of sadness below my ribs.


I held out the bag so he could see for himself.


He just could not comprehend what was happening.


That's what you're freaking out about?! God DAMN it, Chelsea, don't EVER do that to me again! I thought something terrible had happened!



Something terrible DID HAPPEN, I sobbed.



Drip, said the shampoo from Dave's head. Drip. Drip.


He was just looking at me.

He was looking and looking at me as hard as he could, trying to figure out what do do.

I looked at him, too.


He appeared young.
And frightened.
And wet.

And cold.


There's ants on my breakfast, I whispered to him.

He came to me and hugged me.


You're getting me all wet, I said.

Shhhhhhh, he said. I tried to wriggle out of the hug but he held on.

But you are, I whispered again, getting me wet.

Fine! He spat, and huffed off back to the shower.



Please try to understand. The ants had just appeared out of nowhere. They had taken over the whole brown paper bag, and weren't they just busy stealing my food.


Crawling all over it with their terrible little feet.