If you're anything like me, you were really looking forward to me being able to Twitter a running diary during the birth of my third and final daughter. I was ready. I had my iPod blasting the Launch theme from Armageddeon, my UMA BlackBerry was connected to the Hospital Wi-Fi, and I was still not completely sober from the wine pairings I enjoyed with my seven course meal the night before. It was on.
Unfortunately for all of us I was denied that opportunity when Pregatron proved to be impervious to painkillers. No amount of spinal blocks, anesthetic or Bullfrogs (which is a Raspberry Stoli and Lemonade for the uninitiated) could numb her up. So she had to be put under, which meant I couldn't watch the blessed event in the OR. The whole thing really upset Pregatron, which was made worse by the fact that I couldn't talk to her to calm her down. Stupid Modern Medicine.
But in it's own way it was cool. It was kinda old school. I was left to pace back and forth and wonder what was going on. It would have been nice if I could have had a pack of cigarettes and some scotch, too. And then just like in the movies I hear a baby cry and out the nurse comes with my little bundle of outrageous tuition and expensive ass wedding. It was cool. I might head across the river into Canada and bring back some Cubans for complete the deal.
I wonder if Pregatron's Doctor smokes?
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