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She must not have gotten the memo

Thank you so much, everyone, for your kind words and support.  There is no doubt but that I get by with a little help from my friends [YouTube], and I'm really grateful you've been here to share all of this with me.

The story, such as it is — because if ever there were a blessedly uneventful blessed event, Ben's birth was it — will have to be told in small chunks.  For now, please chew on this.  (And if you must spit it out, do so discreetly into your napkin.)

Imagine, if you will, that you are two days postpartum, post-surgery.  It's 5:45 AM.  You're sleeping topless in your hospital bed, facing the nearly-naked baby who's finally asleep himself after a long night of grizzling, rooting, and squeaking.  You are not so much asleep, really, as poleaxed.

And the OB resident, whom you have never met before, enters the room.  You wake, disoriented, and decide that fatigue must be making you hallucinate her presence, because, I mean, damn: really?  But no; it is only too corporeal.  After a painful palpation of your abdomen, during which she verifies that your uterus, despite its better judgment, has not, in fact, staged a daring moonlit escape in the eight hours that have elapsed since the last check, she has a very pressing question for you.  A question, remember, from a stranger.  A question that not only cannot wait until your six-week followup, but that cannot wait for the gentle blush of dawn.


You'll like this.

"Have you considered your contraceptive options?"