Tina Kennard was kneeing on the floor, her forehead and forearms resting on a stool.

“Bette Porter, you did this to me! You made me pregnant!”

Sitting beside Tina and massaging her back, Bette gave an apologetic smile to the OB/GYN nurse on duty. “She’s been here for a while.”

The nurse put a sympathetic hand on Bette’s shoulder. “I’ve heard so much worse, honey.”

“You are never coming near me with sperm again.” Tina continued. “Ever.”

They had now been in the hospital for eight hours, but Tina estimated she’d been in labor at home for a few hours before she called Bette.

“Would you like to walk around again, T?”

“What I’d like is to be rendered unconscious,” Tina took a deep breath, then gritted her teeth, “and wake when our child is 21.”

“I can ask about the epidural?” Bette found it a fine line, trying to be helpful without being patronizing or controlling, two things that she had already been accused of several times since they arrived at the hospital.

“I’m doing natural childbirth,” Tina let out a groan. “Natural ***** childbirth.”

Tina let out some sounds that Bette couldn’t quite comprehend, a fact for which she was somewhat grateful, and then started on a new litany of blame for the pain she was currently enduring. “The woman at the sperm bank, it’s her fault.”

During this whole labor process, Bette noticed that Tina’s circle of fault was extending wider and wider.

“She told me big men make big babies. She jinxed me.”

As much as Bette loved her wife, it was hard to truly keep a supportive, non-judgmental, and non-laughing face as some of Tina’s rants. Blame had gone out to the workers at the sperm bank, the manufacturers of the syringe, and, in some tangential logic that Bette didn’t really follow, the Showtime cable network.

During a lull, the sound of Tina’s deep, cleansing breaths was overtaken by the sound of Bette’s ringing cell phone. “Tell whoever is calling you knocked me up and now you’re paying the price.”

Bette looked at the number. Peggy Peabody. She placed a kiss on the top of Tina’s head. “I’m sorry, T,” she whispered as she pushed the Talk button. “Bette Porter.”

Dividing her attention between whatever Peggy was going on about and Tina, Bette tried to listen to each. “No. Yes. Yes, Peggy, I can see that.”

“Look, Peggy, can I have James give you a call and arrange this? Um, I know, but I’m at the hospital. I’m about to become a mother.”

Bette combed her fingers through Tina’s hair as she listened.

“No, no Peggy, you were correct, I wasn’t pregnant the last time you saw me. It’s my wife that’s having the child. That’s right, I’m the *****.”

“Ok, Peggy. Never felt the need for children yourself? Actually, I think I’m grateful to hear that, Peggy. Ok. Yes, James at the CAC. I’ll tell him what you need.”

Bette turned the phone off as quickly as she could. “No more, I promise.”

“Bette?”

“Hmm?”

“What if she did have children?”

Bette planted a kiss on the back of Tina’s neck. “The only child I care about right now is the one that’s making your life miserable.”

“Help me up?”

Bette helped Tina onto her feet. “Walk time?”

Tina nodded, gripping Bette’s arm tighter as another contraction hit.

Holding onto her wife, waiting for the contraction to subside, Bette couldn’t help but give thanks, again, that she and Tina had been so blessed.

And it was thoughts like that that helped keep Bette sane through the next several hours of dilation, or lack thereof, stages of labor, and, finally, the final push. Or, in Tina’s case, the final forty-five minutes of pushing.

At one point, Bette almost started doubting that Tina would be able to complete things, although she hoped her wife wouldn’t sense her fears. Tina was so tired. Despite the occasional outburst, Bette was amazed at how her wife had remained in relatively good spirits.

Any harsh words, all of the long hours seemed to melt away when Christian Kennard Porter made his way into the world, all 9 pounds, 6 ounces, and 23 inches of him.

Their son had light caramel-colored skin and a scattering of dark curls. And a very healthy set of lungs as he protested all of the cleaning, prodding, and measuring. Bette could see traces of Tina in his nose, and his chin.

Bette watched in awe as the nurse cleaned him, and wrapped him, and then set him in her arms saying, “here you go, mommy.” Bette had tears in her eyes as she brought their son to Tina.

Christian had already spent some time with his mother, lying on her stomach right after the birth, before the umbilical cord was cut. At that point, while Tina was the one more aware of their connection, it wasn’t by much.

“He’s so beautiful,” Bette whispered, holding Christian before Tina. “He looks like our baby. I can’t believe what you’ve done here.”

Tina gave a weary smile. “We,” Tina stressed the word, “did it, babe. He is our baby.”

Bette placed Christian in his other mother’s arms, laying a light kiss on her forehead. “Here’s to boring.”

(the end; for real this time)