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In Stitches

I was having a pretty stellar day, perhaps one of the best days of my entire pregnancy.  Monday’s perinatologist appointment revealed that Baby Freedom had blessedly returned to the head-down position — to which I must give credit to Lady Gaga, because I’m convinced night after night of playing Alejandro by my pubic bone inspired him to dance his way south — and that he continued to look healthy, VERY healthy, weighing an estimated 8 lbs., 6 oz. with potentially four more weeks to grow.

And only a few of you guessed more than nine pounds.  Silly people.

I’m also far along enough now that I needn’t worry that every move I make might cause my cervix to disappear entirely — Yes!  Into the famous Cervix Vortex! — and force Freedom to make his world debut before he’d been properly cooked.  I do have a history of undercooking things (See:  The chicken fettuccine I made for Mr. Candy on our second date) so, naturally, I was very concerned about doing so once again.

In all seriousness, it was an exhausting and nerve-wracking way to live.  The relief I feel now, coupled with my renewed freedom to leave the house and smell the heavenly exhaust-filled L.A.. air, has catapulted me to Cloud Nine — many millions of miles away from the Cervix Vortex.

Seriously.  Google Map it.

I was on such a high, in fact, that I was in the midst of typing a sappy-ish love letter to Baby Freedom this afternoon — there may or may not have been a harpist playing in my head — when the Universe decided I’d been content long enough and dumped the equivalent of an extra-full Diaper Genie on my happiness:  Skylar fell and hit her head on a kitchen set at daycare.  The damage…?  Three stitches’ worth.

Oh, the tears!  Mine, not hers.  That kid is a trooper, I tell ya, whereas I was a blubbering mess — especially when the doctor and nurses whisked her away to stitch her up.  They didn’t recommend us being in the room with her when she got her stitches because, well, parents have a tendency to do unhelpful things when a needle enters their kid’s head.  Like FAINT.  I wouldn’t put it past myself to do such a thing, especially considering my head was already spinning a bit, but more in response to the conversation that had previously transpired between my husband and the plastic surgeon.

MR. CANDY:  (QUITE THE JOKESTER)  I don’t know about this.  My daughter’s a little young to be going to the plastic surgeon!

PLASTIC SURGEON:  (HAS OBVIOUSLY HEARD THIS A MILLION TIMES)  So you said you want her to be a full C-cup, right?

Ha, haaaaaa! Seriously?  My 21-month-old baby’s head is bleeding and these guys are yucking it up about her becoming the next Heidi Montag?  Dudes are lucky I didn’t make THEIR heads spin.  At least I had the decency to wait a few hours to post my joke on Facebook:  Not even two years old and she’s already been to a plastic surgeon. SO L.A.

Yeah.  I know. Ha, haaaaaa!

On the bright side, we all got to wear matching bandages.  Family solidarity, baby!

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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