Free The Scream by Craig Spector, John Skipper Page B

and going
Mmm-hmmm, we've got ten centimeters
as Jake and a nurse spread her numb legs wide . . .
    . . . and then the long gurney-roll down the corridor, the crash through the double doors into what Monty Python had so aptly named the "fetus-frightening room," the hefting up onto the bed . . .
    . . . and then there had been no more room for thought at all, just the Push and the Push and the pain and the
Push and the prick of the needle and the slash of the scalpel and the Push and the Push and the Push . . .
    "And there you were," Rachel hissed, back-datedly triumphant. "And even though you were covered with slime, you were perfect, baby. Perfect."
    Natalie grabbed a handful of her mother's red tresses and yanked. Mommy went "YOW!" and wrenched the tiny hand free, pulling the baby to arm's length. Through the thin skin on the baby's face, every trace of emotion from surprise to terror flickered with staggering clarity in the instant and a half before I Natalie began to cry.
    "Oh, boobie! I'm sorry I scared you!"
    "WAH!"
    "I just don't like having my hair pulled, that's all!"
    "WAH!!!"
    "Oh, no. You're getting sleepy, aren't you, sweetheart?"
    "WAHHHH!"
    "I'll take that as a yes."
    "WAHHHH!!!"
    It was pretty clear where this conversation was going, so Rachel gave up her end of it, resigning herself to coddling Screamo for a minute and surveying the wreckage. It was considerable. The rest of the poor mutilated turkey frank, a half dozen remnants of crackers past, a toy chainsaw, and an Ugly Ball shaped like a leering skull (Ted's warped sense of humor), seven brightly colored concentric rings and the stick-stand to ring them on, a Busy Box full of ringing bells and dials to twiddle, a mangled
TV Guide
, the rest of the phone bill, one well-soiled diaper, and a couple of wipes were among the visible casualties. This was not to mention the well-known cacophony and ferment to be found inside the playpen. God only knew what lurked behind the sofa, lay furtive in the unseen corners of the room.
    This was the curse of life: eternal vigilance. The minute you finished one thing, twelve other things caved in. This was especially true of motherhood. There was never any end to the detritis that needed to be picked up, cleaned, put away, and then slid through the cycle again.
    But it's my house
, she thought, and the truth of those words made all the difference in the world.
Jake and I own the thing: lock, stock, barrel, and twenty-year, variable-rate mortgage.
    The house was old-style big; Pete's grandparents had been fairly well-to-do for their time, and their living quarters had reflected it. Most of the original furnishings remained, though she'd solicited brother Cody's help in stripping and refinishing them, and she'd reupholstered them herself. Lots of solid oak and mahogany to go with Jake's beloved burnished brass. Above all, tons and tons of
space
, the likes of which she couldn't have achieved in New York City for less than the gross national product itself.
    It was hard to believe sometimes; even now, with almost a year in the house behind her. It was hard to believe how lucky she was, how close to ideal her life had actually become. She had a man she loved: more important, a man she trusted with her life, who would be with her till the end and maybe even after. She had the baby she'd been dreaming of and the economic freedom to stay home with that baby. She had gotten Ted out of the city, whether he liked it or not. She had gotten out herself.
    But most of all, she was
centered
, at long last and hopefully forever; and, God, what an amazing feeling that was! What a weight off the shoulders and the soul! There was an incredible sense of completion, of all the threads running through her life finally having come together into something coherent and beautiful. Something she could show for all the years of struggle, the years of mistakes and shortcomings and failure, the years of making do and making peace with