I Love the Epiduralist

I’m in the last part of the let’s-not-panic-window (read: 4 weeks until due date) of the book.

It reminds me a little of being pregnant for the first time. I tried really, really hard not to imagine what labor pains were going to be like. I simply repeated to myself over and over and over again: Women who are a lot wussier than I am have done this and lived.

{Don’t judge—but I actually named a few of my friends when I said it.}

Then the epiduralist came in. {What? Why can’t I call him that? That’s really all women in labor care about. We don’t think about his other types of anesthesia. We can only blurt one word – epiiiiidddduuuuurr…}

The epiduralist is my good friend. Forever.

And so as I wrap up the first edit of the book, I tell myself other writers have done this before. I tell myself they have lived. I tell myself that the 3,000 words I just cut from chapter 2 didn’t really hurt.

And then I pray for an epiduralist. ‘Cause I can’t wait to get this baby in my hands.

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 Thanks for reading my mom's blog. I don't know about the epiduralist, but I think this lady's great.