By "I", I mean my daughter TG, but that's not important. I was there, and I helped. Of course, TG did all of the hard work, which included six hours of induced labor, masked by the "tell me when it's over" miracle that is an epidural. Please. People, I had four kids myself, au naturale, which included concentrated breathing techniques and ridiculously contrived panting while aiming projectile obscenities at the rat bastard who'd knocked me up in the first place.
And pushing . . . There's a gift from on high. God, or whoever invented us, had a twisted sense of humor. Let's give women a hole the size of a kumquat and see if they can push a pumpkin through it, shall we? While my sperm filter had allowed gratuitous stuff into the inbox without so much as a cautionary flag, nothing was getting through the outbox. I prayed for C-sections that never came.
So what gives? Our new baby, the Princess Shaboobka, came out in two—count 'em, 2—pushes. Says the doc after push #1: "Oh, I think this one's going to be easy." After push #2: "Oops."
So, bloggy world, here is our precious new Shaboobka at three days old. She's a keeper, isn't she?
Hi, I’m stupid.
3 days ago
