Does anybody have a heart-warming story about how they were born?
|Photo courtesy of pixabay.com|
Are you the child that came into the world as an early Christmas gift? Did your parents, Mr. and Mrs. Darling, cradle you in their arms in the hospital room while a gentle snowfall coated the streets outside in Winter Wonderland? Does your father recant the story of how he drove 100mph on the freeway from Portland to Seattle just to make it in time for your birth?
The story of how I came into the world is not quite like any of that, but is still a heart-warming tale that some will never forget... no matter how much they probably want to.
From my understanding, the story of my birth goes a little something like this…
“I can’t believe this little bastard is still in there,” my mom probably said as she and my grams went to the store on October 24th, 1986. I was three weeks overdue, and likely grasping onto whatever tubing I could find in there in order to avoid those chilly New York autumns.
In the grocery store filled with people buying bags of snickers and kit-kats in the prelude to Halloween, a sadistic smile grew on my grandmother’s face whilst in the produce section. My mom knew what was coming, so she made sure to distance herself. She needed to stave off the embarrassment of dealing with a woman who gets joy from letting out the most voracious of farts that you could ever fathom curdling at the base of your nostrils.
No, seriously, my grandmother is evil. She’s the kind of woman that will roll up and lock the car windows before letting one rip through the back of her jeans to leave the rest of us clawing at the glass, not unlike in a horror movie when someone’s just released the zombie virus in an enclosed lab. The smell could make mashed potatoes brown instantly and cause budding spring flowers to wilt and die horrible deaths. When she farts in the water, whole ecosystems turn belly up—not because gases are poisonous, but because the scent is so rancid that is causes sea creatures to lose the will to live.
The worst ones are the quiet ones. She calls them her “silent killers.” The loud ones are always good for a laugh, but also allow for the masses to get a running start. The silent ones can’t be heard though. It isn’t until the green mist emerges from between those cheeks that you realize that you’ve got just seconds escape, and on that particular day, she was saving an especially gruesome one that was sure to clear out the store and rot all produce within three hundred feet of her.
But as that killer emerged, there was something my grandmother could not expect, and I imagine that her face was a little something like this:
“Shelly,” she called to my mother with a set of widened eyes and sweat forming on her brow.
“Don’t talk to me. You’re disgusting,” my mother sneered from a safe distance.
“We need to leave—now,” grams replied.
“Oh good,” my mom replied with a wisp of satisfaction. “You can smell your own mess, then?”
“No…” grams said, still sweating and horrified. “Shelly, it wasn’t a fart. I thought it was but… I just shat my pants, and it’s dripping down my leg.” She was in shorts that day, btw.
My mother looked at my grandmother incredulously for a moment, piecing together the information in her mind. This forty-year-old woman just shat herself in the middle of a grocery store.
“Shelly,” she pleaded. “We’ve got to go now! I can feel it trickling.”
My mother should have been mortified. She should have grabbed my grandmother and rushed her out of a grocery that neither of them could dignifiedly enter again (ha!!! As if anyone in this family has dignity). Instead, my mother let out a gregarious laugh—a laugh that was so hard that it caused her stomach to squeeze and her abdomen to tense, before she had a horrifying realization of her own. My mother had laughed so hard at my grams’ shart that she broke into labor.
A few hours later on October 25th, I was born unto this world: an allegedly cute, very bald baby. Unbeknownst to that poor past me, I was the byproduct of bastardization and sharting. But hey, no one’s perfect, right? That’s why my blog is called “Slightly Off-Kilter.” Normies don’t have a life like mine. If they did, they certainly wouldn’t admit to it.
Does anyone else have an amusing birth story? I’d love to believe that I’m not alone out here…