The Royal Delivery

by Melanie Summers

  Turning to the camera, Blake says, "Little bit of technical difficulties there, folks." He chuckles and then continues to look for the proper meditation. "It's called open flower, isn’t it?"

  "Shut it off. I don’t want a fucking meditation right now,” Brooke says, slapping the phone out of his hand.

  “Sure, sure,” he says, shaking his fingers a little. “What can I do for you, then?" Blake says, reaching over to rub her back. "Daddy massage time?"

  "Don't touch me. Go get Dr. Yates."

  "Is something wrong, sweetie?"

  "Yes, something's wrong, you genius! I’m in labour, and it hurts like a motherfucker, so shut off the fucking cameras and get me a fucking epidural!"

  The screen goes black for a second, and then an ad for Krispy Kreme doughnuts comes on, leaving Nikki, Arabella and I staring at each other wide-eyed for a moment before we all burst out laughing.

  After a minute, the laughing brings the serious heartburn. I pop another Tums tablet into my mouth, chewing it slowly while Nikki and Arabella continue enjoying the victory of the moment.

  "Oh my God. That was awesome," Nikki says, high-fiving Arabella.

  "Awful Brooke just got her comeuppance, didn't she?" Arabella turns to me and holds up her arm. I high-five her and grin back at them even though a very tiny voice inside my head is saying, "If she can't do this, and she's basically perfect — how the fuck are you supposed to do this?"

  I WAKE THE NEXT MORNING with a gnawing feeling, and it's not just hunger this time—it's fear. Somehow, up to now I've allowed myself to pretty much ignore how I’m actually going to get these babies out of me, but seeing it live on television scared the shit out of me. I was hoping that when I woke up, I’d feel less terrified, but as I stare down at my enormous belly, I’m really freaking worried about the whole labour and delivery thing.

  By the time I went to bed last night, there was still no word on whether Brooke and Blake had their baby yet. I reach over to Arthur’s pillow and pick up my phone to check the news. The ABNC News Brooke and Blake Cunningham Baby Update RSS feed was updated ten minutes ago and shows there is still no baby yet.

  "Jesus."

  Scrolling down, I see a hundred and forty-two comments, most of which are every bit as catty as Arabella, Nikki and I were yesterday evening.

  “It's karma, baby. This is what you get for making every other woman feel crappy about themselves.”

  “The best part of last night was when Brooke slapped the iPhone out of Blake's hand.”

  “Respectfully disagree. It was when she grabbed the cloth and wiped her own forehead. What a useless man.”

  “I liked all the f-bombs, myself. Lady Brooke not acting at all like a lady. Ha ha.”

  “It is all too priceless. She totally got what she deserved. People like her should be shipped off to an island for arrogant jerks so no normal people have to see them anymore.”

  “That’s what she gets for being a big phony. Not like Princess Tessa— a real woman who will probably handle labour and delivery like the warrior she is.”

  Warrior? Oh, well, I don’t know about that...I mean. I’m just a normal woman, really. And this normal woman needs some chocolate raspberry crepes.

  2 P.M. - ABNC NEWS Brooke and Blake Cunningham Baby Update

  Lady Doctor Brooke Beddingfield Cunningham and her husband, Blake, are pleased to announce the birth of their son, Bogart Winston Blake Cunningham the first. He arrived at 1:48 p.m. weighing in at 6lbs 1 ounce. Both little Bogart and mum are doing fine. The couple thank the people of Avonia for their support and good wishes and apologize for the technical issues that caused them to lose the feed on the planned live birth last night.

  EMAIL FROM ME TO HAZEL Nettlebottom

  RE: Good Enough Mums Campaign Op-Ed

  Dear Hazel,

  I’m certain you’ve been keeping up with the Brooke Beddingfield birth story. It appears that my Good Enough Mum campaign may be the cause of a great deal of backlash toward her Avonian Healthy Pregnancy Foundation. To that end, I’d like to offer the following op-ed to The Weekly Observer to try to put a stop to the cruel comments toward Brooke. In spite of our personal history and my feelings toward her, I feel badly about what’s happening and would very much like to help in some way.

  All the best,

  Tessa

  Email from Hazel Nettlebottom to Me:

  RE: RE: Good Enough Mum Campaign Op-Ed

  Dearest Princess Tessa,

  Your op-ed brought tears to my eyes. There truly is no limit to your graciousness, and it shines through in this piece. If I had to guess, I’d say that this moment in history will be known as the time when you’ve managed to ‘turn it all around’ and will henceforth be as beloved as your husband.

  If you look on our website, you will see it’s live and there have been dozens of positive comments in the time it took me to grab a coffee and come back to my desk to write you. We’ll, of course, be printing it in our next edition as well (which, by the way, has seen a 5% increase in circulation since the photo spread, so thank you very much for that!).

  Keep in touch, and good luck with your own delivery! Let me know if there is anything you need in the meantime.

  Best,

  Hazel

  OP-ED THE WEEKLY OBSERVER

  By: Princess Tessa, Duchess of Wellingbourne

  Two weeks ago, I launched the Good Enough Mum campaign, hoping to help the women of Avonia feel better about ourselves ‘just the way we are.’ To that end, I photographed twenty pregnant women, (most of whom I met at my obstetrician’s office), in hopes of celebrating the beauty in the ‘untouched-up’ and to depict the diversity of real mums and mums-to-be (not just the stick thin, heavily-made-up models we’re used to seeing in the media).

  Much to my delight, the team’s efforts have been a great success, and I have enjoyed reading the positive comments from women—and men—around the kingdom who have expressed their appreciation for the goals of the Good Enough Mum Campaign (G.E.M.C.).

  As someone in the public eye, I’ve become somewhat used to living under a great deal of scrutiny, which in some ways has prepared me for motherhood. In talking with other parents, it seems as though, in our culture, there is a tendency to criticize and judge other parents rather harshly for making different choices than we ourselves may make. And I know coming from me (the former Royal Watchdog), this will sound very strange indeed—hypocritical even. But the past two years have taught me how difficult it is to have everything you say and do be critiqued, criticized, and judged by others.

  It seems to me that motherhood is a breeding ground for criticism and judgment. My hope in creating the G.E.M.C. was to gently bring us around to a place of acceptance and support.

  But somewhere we’ve gone off the rails, and the public seems to have turned on one of our own—Lady Dr. Brooke Beddingfield Cunningham. It may come as a shock to some that I’m calling her one of ‘our own,’ given the fact that Brooke’s Avonian Healthy Pregnancy Foundation may seem to be at odds with the G.E.M.C., but it really is not. The G.E.M.C. is about not judging the choices of others, which includes not judging Brooke for being ‘too healthy’ or ‘too strict.’

  The country watched last night as she struggled through what appeared to be a difficult labour. I’m guessing her experience was no different than most first-time deliveries, with one notable exception—Brooke was trying to use her own pregnancy and delivery to help others. She was brave to step up and attempt to show the importance of a healthy lifestyle and positive mindset (neither of which I possess as of late). Things didn’t work out quite the way she hoped, but today she and Blake have welcomed their son, the adorable Bogart, to the world.

  I would like to take this opportunity to congratulate the happy couple, as well as ask for people around the kingdom to show their support for, rather than their criticism of, Brooke at this time.

  Yes, many have found her to be a ‘little too perfect’ (including me at times—after all, it’s
hard to keep up with a beautiful, intelligent, globe-trotting doctor who has dedicated her life to the less-fortunate), but that’s about me, isn’t it? Not her. I’d like to call on women everywhere to rise above our own insecurities to offer our support and gratitude for what Brooke has been trying to do.

  At its heart, the G.E.M.C. is about acceptance of the myriad of ways in which pregnancy—and motherhood itself—can be handled. And no, I’m not talking about championing anything that will do harm to a woman or child, of course, but I ask that we all take a step back, relax a little, and agree that it’s okay to be different and make different choices.

  Breast or bottle, drug-free delivery in an inflatable pool at home or epidural all the way, we women get the job done. We give birth to the babies, the babies get fed, they’re loved and nurtured, they grow up, and become functioning, contributing members of society. There are as many ways to handle pregnancy, delivery, and motherhood as there are many different mums in the world. And that’s a good thing. That’s what makes this world a beautiful, interesting, and diverse place. It’s what makes it work, quite frankly.

  I’d like to make a confession. I’m absolutely terrified of labour, delivery, and motherhood in general. So many things can go wrong, and it seems to me that as far as parenting goes, you don’t get to control it, as much as you have to learn to ride the waves of whatever comes your way (case in point, in a few weeks, with any luck, I’ll be welcoming one more baby than I thought I would be).

  So, since this whole parenting thing is hard enough as it is, how about we all agree to cut each other some slack and do a better job of encouraging each other?

  My hope is that throughout the kingdom, we take pause to think about how we can all do our part to be a little bit kinder and a little bit (or a lot) more accepting of each other’s choices. Let’s do our best to validate each other’s experiences, even when they are wildly different from our own.

  If we can manage this, what kind of world will we be creating for our children to grow up in? One with less insecurity? One with less hatred and fewer bullies? One with more harmony and a sense of purpose? What if women worked together instead of tearing each other apart?

  I’d say we’d be well on our way to creating a more peaceful, friendly world.

  Can we do it?

  Yes, we bloody well can.

  ARTHUR AND TESSA’S Baby Name Brainstorming Session Via Text Message #2

  Arthur: Hey wifey, HUGE congratulations on your op-ed. You’ve used your brilliance to do what Dylan and her entire team of lackeys could not.

  Tessa: Thanks! I’m honestly over the moon with happiness about it. Can’t stop smiling (except that I miss you horribly and am completely miserable without you).

  Arthur: Completely miserable other than the non-stop smiling and being over the moon with happiness...

  Tessa: Yes. Other than that. Speaking of Moon Units. Do you have time for another round of baby naming?

  Arthur: Four minutes. Go!

  Tessa: You go. I came up with the last two.

  Arthur: Applesauce (for a girl obviously).

  Tessa: I grew up with an Applesauce. Totally soft.

  Arthur: Melanie?

  Tessa: Nope. Rhymes with ‘felony’. Also, anytime someone asks her her name, she’ll say, “it’s Melanie” which sounds like “smellanie.”

  Arthur: Although who won’t know her name? I mean really?

  Tessa: Nope! No Smellanies! For a boy, Evander (Greek for ‘good man’)?

  Arthur: Hmmm. Don’t love it.

  Tessa: Adding to the list.

  Arthur: Maybe we should each name one baby.

  Tessa: No veto power?

  Arthur: No veto power.

  Tessa: I veto the no veto power.

  Arthur: Secretly relieved. That quickly felt like a lot of pressure. Time’s up. Tell Applesauce and Moon Unit their father loves them.

  EMAIL FROM DYLAN SINCLAIR to King Winston cc: Prince Arthur, Princess Tessa

  RE: Resignation

  Dear King Winston,

  Please accept this email as my formal resignation effective two weeks from today. I have taught the staff everything I know regarding public relations and am most pleased with the progress made in such a short period of time. The overwhelming popularity of all members of the royal family, particularly Princess Tessa, means that my time with you must come to an end. Like Mary Poppins, I must go where I am needed most. To that end, you will be able to reach me at the Avonian Healthy Pregnancy Foundation, under the employ of Lady Dr. Brooke Beddingfield Cunningham.

  The address is below to forward any correspondence, checks, tax forms, etc.

  Wishing you all the best, including continued happiness, wealth, and an eternally adoring public (which should be possible if you continue on the path which I have led you down).

  Yours,

  Dylan Sinclair

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Birthing Plans Brought to you by Netflix

  Tessa - 35 Weeks

  Text from Bram: Hey Tess, hope you're feeling better. I'm wondering if you could call me back. About the baby's names. There is a bookie online offering ten to one odds that you're going to go with Rosalind if it's a girl. Irene's brother is having a bit of a cash flow issue, and rather than lending him more money I was hoping to be given the inside track on the whole baby name thing. I'm assuming you and Arthur have figured that out already, right?

  Text from mum: Tessa, it's your neighbour from across the palace (AKA Mum). The babies are about the size of a Cornish game hen now! Can you imagine? Have you done that pregercise video yet? My cousin Rose’s daughter Candace swears by it and she got her figure back straight away, even after her third baby. Dad and I were thinking of popping by tonight if you’re not doing anything. Call me.

  IN THE INTEREST OF venting, which is totally healthy unless it becomes a regular pastime—wait, is this my regular pastime? Hmm, I might have to start tracking the amount of time I spend venting to see if it’s abnormally high. But not today. I’m too angry to track things today. Today, I’m honestly ready to blow, so I’m just going to go with it for a few minutes, then let it go. I promise. Well, I hope, anyway...

  I have hit a wall as far as pregnancy goes.

  I’m done.

  Totally and utterly done.

  These babies are taking up so much room, I couldn’t take a full breath even if I did want to meditate (which I don’t because there is literally no possible way I’ll reach a Zen state with how horridly uncomfortable I am every second of the day and night). And I should be celebrating; after all, I’ve managed to slay the Brooke dragon (using compassion no less), I’ve won over most of the public, Dylan has moved on, and I’ve started a new movement of helping women believe they’re good enough as they are. Honestly, what more could I want?

  And yet, I’m just an angry, angry bird now, watching the seconds tick by on the clock while I still don’t go into labour. At least if I could sleep the hours away, that would make the time go by quicker. Only, I can’t get a decent sleep because I have to get up and pee every couple of hours on account of the fact that the space allotted for my bladder right now is equivalent to the size of a grain of rice.

  Arthur and I are currently in the back of the limo on the way to Dr. Dropp's office. Arthur, who has been forced to bring a stack of paperwork with him, is busy working away while I sit and stew. Right now, I couldn’t find a Zen state if it was on a map and I had GPS. I’m a miserable, snappy beast. I find myself very short with everyone around me, then right after, I feel so guilty I get very teary and feel just awful about how bitchy I just was...right up to the exact moment someone pisses me off again. Then Rage-Filled Princess Tessa makes another appearance.

  I stare out the window at all the Christmas decorations going up around the city, trying to think of something nice to say. I suppose I’m glad to be in the cool air-conditioned backseat of the limo, but I also feel sort of guilty because it’s the first week of December and Arthur keeps
blowing on his hands while he works. When I ask if he wants it adjusted, he says he wouldn’t dream of it and that he’s fine, but I have a feeling that is a lie. A smart one.

  The truth is, deep down I’m both terrified and filled with regret. I keep asking myself how the frick I’m going to look after two babies and continue my royal duties without the help of a nanny. And I’m coming up totally blank. My only hope is my parents’ house takes a few more years to be built so the babies will be in nursery school by the time I’m left to handle things on my own. But that’s not going to happen, and I know it. The contractor told them they should be in there by January 1st. I haven’t told Arthur I secretly want them to stay, and I won’t. Not after spending the past several months complaining about them and telling him how badly I wish they’d leave.

  Why did I have to open my big mouth about the nannies? Why, Tessa, why?

  I can’t go back on it now. Not if I ever want to be able to face the public, or my brothers again for that matter. Hmm...that suddenly doesn’t sound so bad.

  But before I can get to failing at being a mum, I’m going to have to go through the whole birth thing, and the thought of that is unimaginably scary. Ever since I watched Brooke’s not-so-smooth labour on the telly the other night, I’ve been freaked the feck out. Seeing the pain she was in, even though she’d done everything right, scared the bejeezus out of me. I mean, she prepped her cervix (whatever the hell that means), meditated, ate an incredibly strict diet, and kept up with her intense yoga practice, while I’ve pretty much just sat around eating and trying not to think about the delivery part of motherhood. If she wasn’t ready, I’m totally screwed.

  The worst part is, I’m supposed to be Graceful In-Labour Princess Tessa, only giving dainty little puffs of air during contractions, followed by serene smiles and polite requests for ice chips. If I’m anything short of that, the hospital staff will spend the rest of their lives telling everyone they meet how I swore like a sailor and screamed at Arthur when I was in labour. This is one of those moments in life when I wish no one knew who I was. I miss the freedom of anonymity.