Doctor: So your baby is in the 90th percentile.
Doctor: There are certain risks for a vaginal birth with a baby of this size.
Me: *deep breath*
Doctor: Even if you can pass the head, you’ve still got to contend with the shoulders. They can be damaged when we pull him out. Or – if he gets stuck at the shoulders – he could develop palsy.
Rocco: My co-worker’s wife delivered a twelve pound baby…
Rocco: …and he broke his shoulder coming out.
Me: Please shut up, Rocco.
Rocco: They had to twist him out like a football.
Doctor: Technically it’s not the shoulder that breaks in that situation. It’s the clavicle.
Me: Ok, how about you BOTH shut up?
So seeing as how Jabba the Baby seems to have inherited his father’s sense of direction and is clearly never going to find his way out on his own, we’re mounting a reconnaissance mission. Tomorrow morning we’re sending in a team of navy seals. Or a surgeon. I’m just hoping the drugs are good enough I won’t be able to tell the difference.
On the upside, a c-section will give the doctor peeps a chance to check out my sketchy ovary. Seems I have a cyst rivaling the size of Paul that they don’t like. With my medical history, I reckon the wise thing to do is just chop it right out. As my uncle Chuck would say, “Then there’s just one less place for cancer to grow.”
While I’m freaking out about over this development, my vagina is pretty excited. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s chanting “Viva the Vag” down there.
So the moral of the story is Paul should arrive tomorrow and I probably won’t be around the blogosphere for a little while. I’ll try and get someone to post something letting you know all goes ok.
Miss you bitches already.