Fancy-pants

 I've chosen my delivery room outfit.  Mommy insists it will be too small by the time my brister (since I don't technically know for sure it's a brother...we'll call him my brister) comes.  Pah!  I actually exercise daily, unlike some I could mention.  This suit will be just fine.  And then, get this, then Mommy told me I wouldn't be allowed in the delivery room!  For shame!  Of course I'll be there!  This is the birth of my brister after all!  Who better to coach him out than me?  After all I was in his place not too long ago.  I remember the pain, the bending, the pressure, the terrible headache and general aches that accompanied my arrival.  Some one understanding needs to be there for him.  After I was born, everyone always wanted to know how Mommy was feeling, and if Mommy was recovering well.  What about me?!  Who is the one that got ripped out very ungraciously from my cozy home?  Who was the one traumatized by the sudden burst of light and vision of doctors with blue hands and no faces?  Yeah, that would be me.  So I'm wearing the suit, I'm coming in the room, and no one's gonna' stop me!