Even though Tate had this perfect birth plan in her mind—one that involved no pain medications, maybe a whirlpool bath, and watching Animal Planet and the Space Channel on TV—it turned into an emergency C-section, where Tate inevitably had one of her passing-out spells. Not that I could blame her. If I knew they were cutting me open, I’d pass the fuck out too. The nurse also thought it would be good to tell me how many layers of skin they were going through. And that led to me passing out too. So, there we were, Tate and I, in one big fainting party.
