For the last several weeks, I’ve stayed up way-too-late (past 11 p.m. is late) trolling the internet reading birth stories. Now, I’m not sure that minivan driving moms who bake cookies can actually be considered “trolling” the internet, but really, I’m not sure what else to call it. Isn’t trolling what weird people in basements do? It’s somewhat obsessive, and it’s time for me to get a life.

A hundred or so birth stories later, I’ve seen it all: the good, the bad, and the ugly. And I didn’t even have to leave my home for the ER, a birth center, or someone’s living room floor to see it. Technology is great.

But I’m birth story-ed out. I mean, it’s the same stuff over and over: she’s not sure she’s in labor, she decides she’s in labor, she knows she’s in labor, and right when she wants to quit the whole thing altogether—a baby is born. (Or in one case I read, two babies were born!) Lather, rinse, repeat.

We still have this obsessive need to tell our stories though. The urge is stronger than my good sense to go to bed. I just want to know that one of those good stories could happen to me. It’s possible. Seeing how I’ve done it five times already, I figure it’s my turn for one of those “lovely, peaceful” births. The kind where I don’t yell that I’m dying.

I’ve decided that since it happens to other people, it could theoretically happen to me. Other people find diamonds on deserted sidewalks, inherit millions, and get picked for Wheel of Fortune. Yes, I can almost taste it.

It’s my turn, do you hear me?!