Back to our regular bi-weekly visit to OB-GYN/Perinatologist for a checkup. Today, I asked her about pursuing a procedure whereby I would trade anomolies with my son. I would get his hypoplastic left heart, along with a bilateral cleft lip and palate (and all of the painful surgeries and limitations which would go along with them), and he would get my obsession with worry and my addiction to coffee.
I’m kidding, of course. But that is exactly what I was begging God for last night, and since I woke up just the same, I can only think that he’s not down with me switching ailments. So I briefly considered mentioning it to the doctor. But I don’t want her to find out that I’m crazy.
[I suppose this means that I'm moving into the third stage of grief: bargaining.]
Following the doctor’s office and a stop by the L&D; floor, we were off to a romantic Valentine’s Day lunch at an Irish Pub, where the wife and I had a pint of milk and a pint of Guinness, respectively. And some delicious shepherd’s pie and lamb stew.