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Happy birthday, again

The other two babies were born yesterday — the remaining two out of the three my friends conceived while I was experiencing my excellent ectopic adventure. I should be grateful that they were organized enough to emerge on the same day, sparing me two separate freakouts.

I wonder if I you can get post-traumatic stress disorder from situations like this. At this point all you have to do is start going on about pounds, inches, and duration of labor — or showing those pictures of an exhausted, triumphant woman holding a tiny, crabbed wean — and I start having sweaty palms and flashbacks.

I hope no one's offended when I dive under the table for cover and start hurling dinner forks and butter pats at the imagined approaching enemy, yelling, "This one's for the tube, motherfucker!"