"SQUATTING in an inflatable pool in the open kitchen of her apartment in Astoria, Queens..."
Seriously, I would never give birth in an inflatable pool, for one thing. Let alone let my husband and mother and sister and high-school friend and my PTA co-chair hang out in with me.
Look at this poor mother! She needs drugs. She needs hard-core drugs to her spinal cord. Not an audience of people who can't do a motherfucking thing for her.
This kind of back-to-roots childbirth business is a load of crap.
To my future baby: Momma will have you with some drugs in her. Deal with it. Immediately following birth, she will ask the doctor to grab her compact and her Chanel lipstick and will re-apply before ordering a cocktail. You will not be born in an inflatable pool, nor in Queens. These will be the two ways in which I reassure you that I actually love you. Welcome to the world. Love, Your Mother. Now hand me my cigarettes...
Article HERE. I couldn't even bear to read it. Tell me how it goes.
(Then again, look at this pale, adorable little monster... it's not his fault he was born in a plastic pool... what a cutie.)