Flashback Sunday: One Year Ago Today.

I'm exhausted. Baby Girl Page has been ridiculously sick all weekend long. Ridiculously sick, and wanting her mama.  Her mama who's also not feeling all that great. Which means I have no brain cells left to write you a witty post today...

So instead, we're going to look back at the trouble she was causing me on this exact same day last year...

Like Mother, Like Daughter?

Baby Girl Page had a big surprise for us this week. Turns out she's decided to be breech—just like I was. But she's taking it up a notch. Instead of landing in the standard breech position, she's in something called the oblique lie, which means she's laying on her side, like she's in a hammock. With her head oh-so-comfortably jammed under my right ribs, her butt on the left, and her shoulder where a more obliging baby would put her head.

In other words, unless something changes, there's no way she's coming out of there the normal way. And to make it worse, the placenta's on top of her, so trying to turn her from the outside would be a risky business, to say the least.

But I don't think I even want them to try. According to my mom, they attempted to turn me, and I obliged, but then decided I really didn't like being upside down and turned myself back around at the very last second. And since she's my daughter, I wouldn't be at all surprised if she has the exact same attitude.

Yep, so it looks like Mommy is going to get a C-section, like it or not. And I? Don't like that idea at all.

The whole thing scares me to death. I have a hard time not passing out when I have to get a little blood taken. And now they're going to cut me open and pull a baby out of me? Excuse me while I go throw up.

In fact, I know this is pretty immature of me, but every time I think of C-sections, I think of this clip from Spaceballs:


But, I know that at the end of the day, all that matters is that I end up with a happy, healthy baby in my arms. She certainly won't remember how she was born. Although, this way, I'll have a physical scar to prove  just how traumatic her birth was—proof I can use to slather on the guilt for the rest of her life.

And what mom doesn't love the opportunity to guilt the crap out of her progeny every once in a while?