She was kidding, surely.
A little obstetric humour to lighten the mood perhaps, considering she had just been poking around the opening of ET’s obstreperous cervix like a drunk driver attempting to touch the tip of his nose.
No. Alas, no.
‘You are zero centimetres dilated.’
'Zero' is not Dutch for 8. Or for 6, or for 2 for that matter. It’s Dutch for zero.
In theory, the 40 weeks being up and Fatso Mango not budging wouldn’t be a very big deal if it wasn’t for the small matter that Fatso Mango is, well, a fatso. To be more accurate, Fatso Mango being a fatso in itself isn’t the issue, but when it’s combined with the fact that Fatso Mango’s Mammy is only a wee thing it does turn a smidge more problematic.
I’m not one to cause alarm, but the obstetrician couldn’t find the child’s legs on the ultrasound today and we believe that the baby has eaten them for nourishment.
Eaten its own legs so it has, the hungry parasitic savage.
Add that to the fact that I'm not sure if a number on the report we have is the estimated birth weight in grams or the doctor's mobile phone number, and it’s got to come out soon, for everyone’s well being.
40 weeks are up. It’s like joining all the dots, stepping back to admire, and still not having a notion what the picture is.
Idle threats to smoke Fatso Mango out have turned into solid arrangements.
The countdown is on; you have 5 days to make your move.
Come out, come out, wherever you are.