To the two women I had to listen to at a café today:
I don’t want to know about your birthing plan or how the gas helped, even though you didn’t think it would.
I don’t want to know about how you pissed and shat yourself and what effect having your baby had on your perineum.
I don’t want to hear you gush about your breathing plan and the connection you had with your midwife. Your midwife, who you’re having coffee with now. Because you’re pregnant again and she will deliver your baby. You speak in voluptuous, but scratching voices that bite my ears, turning them into burning pistons in my head.
And then, when you leave, my anger compresses and I begin to cry.
Can you learn to speak in hushed tones about your bladder and how your baby had anal thrush?
I don’t care for your avocado smeared baby, either. I probably would have had you just keep to yourselves like the couple at the next table from you. Why is it that I didn’t hear them, even though their mouths were moving?
It’s not that I don’t care – I just don’t care to hear about your most intimate bodily functions and moments while I am drinking my morning coffee.