The day my brother was born (I was 9 years old), my dad anxiously waited for me to return from my monthly girl scout outing on the front steps, desperately wanting to get back to the hospital and his new son. My leader, Connie, and my fellow co-Brownies dropped me off, yelling shouts of congrats up to my Dad, who waved and grinned. I approached him with an attitude.

"Is it a boy?"

"Yep."

"You owe me five bucks." (We had placed a bet.)

"Yep."

"We go to the hospital now?"

"Yep."

"OK, but first I have to go poop."

"All right."

I went upstairs to the bathroom and tried hard to hurry, my dad pacing impatiently outside the closed and locked door. I soon realized I was having a, shall we say, poo problem.

"Dad?"

"Yep."

"I can't go."

"Why not?"

"I just can't. It won't come out."

"Well, just shit. Shit it out."

"I'm trying. It won't come out."

He then stood outside the door, which I refused to open (I was a very proper young lass), offering words of encouragement and praise:

"PUSH!"

"THERE YOU GO!"

"IS IT ALMOST OUT?"

What a coach. I hope he did as well with my mom.
-- Melissa [1]