Excuse me, I think I am going to Baarf

Child birth is supposed to be happy, touchy, feeley time where the "aww's" and the "aahh's" come cooing out of people and tears start rolling because humanity is being revitalized with new stock.

It makes me sick like the time after drinking too thick, hot chocolate in a cute little place behind Union Square.

I gag, not at the thought of the gore and the blood and the excretions that make childbirth a little too reminescent of our animalistic past, but because of the poor ventilation in a hospital that, until recently, was destined to be closed as a result of financial ruin, and has antiquated equipment and ventilator fans that aren't working too well. The smell and the heat have put me off childbirth entirely.

Childbirth has put me off sex entirely. Now, with each act of passion, I will forever be mindful of the numerous women with protuberant bellies, who have entered through the pearly gates of Labor and Delivery and were told to bear down and push like they were making "kaka".

And some of them do, much to my dismay.

I try not to make faces, especially when these women have come in through the clinic for their prenatal visits and think I am the most patient and kindest human being known to man.

I try not to scratch my head and look puzzled as I stare at the female genitalia in its many varied forms, too embarassed to ask if what I was looking at was normal, too disturbed in the head because I cannot stop myself from asking: "And what animal is that?".

And to top it all off, I was told today that I should be an Ob/Gyn doc.

Are you kidding me?