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Drama Baby

As if we’re not already completely consumed with her and her imminent arrival, Baby Girl decided it would be amusing to have Mom and Dad wake up at 7AM this morning for a follow-up ultrasound.  You may remember that she was measuring small at an estimated 5 lbs., 7 oz. at my 37-week checkup earlier this week — sorta strange, considering I was the size of an Emperor Penguin at birth — so my doctor suggested going to a center with fancy-schmancy ultrasound equipment to get a more accurate read.   Doc wasn’t terribly worried because everything else had looked great.  But once she saw our look of concern, our look that cried OMIGOD, OUR 22-LB. CAT COULD EAT THIS TINY LITTLE THING FOR BREAKFAST, she recommended getting a second opinion.  For our peace of mind, if nothing else.

The doctor who performed this morning’s ultrasound didn’t have the most, um, delicate touch.  For the purposes of this story, I’ll protect her identity and just use a sweet nickname:  Dr. Brutal.  Seriously.  I didn’t know an ultrasound could be painful.  Startlingly cold, yes.  Befuddling as I pretend I’m able to distinguish the baby’s buttocks from her nostrils, yes.  But painful…?  Dr. Brutal pressed down on my stomach so hard, I’m pretty sure I still have the imprint of the paddle on my back.  This, I was not expecting.  I wonder if my stretch mark cream will work on that?

Baby Girl clearly wasn’t too thrilled with Dr. Brutal’s ruffian ways either.  Because as soon as we saw her mug in 3D, we saw that she was sticking out her tongue at Dr. B.

That’s my daughter, all right!  You go, girl.

My discomfort gave way to relief, however, when the doctor informed us that Baby Girl weighs closer to 6 lbs., 5 oz. — give or take a half-pound — and NOT the originally estimated 5 lbs., 7 oz.   Phew!  Quite a difference.  Still not the usual Kirby Family Emperor Penguin-sized baby that I was expecting, but certainly within the normal and healthy range.  And, hopefully, just big enough that she won’t qualify as kitty breakfast kibble.

A surprising amount of this weight appears to reside in her pucker.  As even the stoic Dr. Brutal had to note, “Look at that pouty mouth!”

Not sure where those adorable lips came from, but eat your heart out, Angelina!

I know what you’re thinking, and no, she is NOT filming “Anaconda 5:  Even Bigger and Slimier Than Ever” in there — that’s just her umbilical cord.  From which she gets her daily infusion of Starbucks coffee cakes and Smucker’s Uncrustables PB&J sandwiches.  Being the caring mother I am, I figured it was best to let her know as early on as possible that home-cooked meals would not be part of her daily diet.  Not ones that are actually edible, at least.  (I’ll let Mr. Candy tell you the story of how I gave us both food poisoning on our second date…)

Because sharing is caring, as I tell my kids. (Except my wine. Never my wine.)
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Candy Kirby is the founder of The Laughing Stork and a professional fun-maker who will never stop chasing her lifelong dream: to find the Pomeranian or porn star after whom her parents must have named her. A humor columnist for Disney, Nickelodeon, Scary Mommy, Reductress and Redbook, she also used to be a staff writer for the soap opera, The Bold and the Beautiful, where she penned many scripts featuring prolonged heated stares and countless “Who’s the Daddy?” story lines. Candy lives in Los Angeles with her husband, two young kids and three rescue Persian cats, the latter of whom are the real brains behind this operation (so send all complaints to them).

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