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Two Out of Two Doctors Agree: I Am Giving Birth to James Gandolfini


Two Out of Two Doctors Agree: I Am Giving Birth to James Gandolfini

“We’re at the point where I don’t really care about your cervix anymore,” the perinatologist told me at last week’s appointment, just a few days shy of being 34 weeks along.

“Hey now,” my cervix, used to being the center of attention, frowned.

“Woo-hoo!  That’s great news,” I smiled.  “So I guess I don’t need to see you any –”

“But I’ll need you back here in three weeks to reassess the baby’s size.  If he’s still measuring so big, we may want to take precautionary measures.”

That’s right.  I’ve gone from being terrified that I would deliver a preterm baby to being terrified that I will deliver a baby the size of James Gandolfini after an all-you-can-eat pasta buffet.  (May I just also add:  Pasta buffet?  YUM.)  Consistently measuring 2-3 weeks big, Baby Freedom weighed an estimated 6 lbs. 4 oz. as of last Thursday.  Or, as they say in the obstetrics field, FREAKIN’ HUGE.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” my OB assured me at yesterday’s appointment, where I expressed my concern and sat on the examination table, clutching my vagina in fear.  “You’re all stretched out from delivering your first baby, anyway.”

Gee, thanks.

“Not to mention those measurements can be off by twenty percent.  Here, let me feel,” she said, laying her hands on my beach ball of a stomach.  “I’m decent at estimating without an ultrasound.”

I watched as she confirmed Freedom’s head was down (good news) and that his ass was indeed sticking up on the left side of my stomach — boy’s got some junk in the trunk — and then:

“His head is big.  Oh yeah.  I’d say six to seven pounds.”

Six to… seven?  With possibly another six weeks to go?  *GULP*

“How tall are you?” she asked.

“Almost five-eight.”

“You’ll be just fine,” she nodded.

Phew!  Apparently, being tall with a stretched out vagina lays the perfect foundation for giving birth to a newborn who won’t get carded at bars.  What a relief!  When I informed the doctor that my five-foot-three mom gave birth to a baby that was nine pounds, fourteen ounces (that would be me), she grew even more confident of my birthing abilities.

“We usually inherit the size of our pelvic region from our moms.  You’ll be just fine,” she repeated.

You’ll be just fine… you’ll be just fine… you’ll be just fine. Her words echoed in my supposedly cavernous vagina.

“If we have to, we can induce a week early,” she added.  “Continue to take it easy on bed rest for another two weeks, then we’ll go from there.”

Out of all of this uncertain baby weight and due date craziness, only one thing is clear:  We MUST have another baby betting pool.  Because when I think of giving birth to a precious baby, I naturally think of gambling.  Details to come.


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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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