The good news is that the sonogram came out just fine. The less thrilling news is that it looks as though we're going the C-section route anyway. I am tremendously relieved to know that Wee Bizzleburp is still okay in there, and I'm not choking him/her on a bad placenta. Still, the doc says that in terms of the timetable, we're at a yellow light and shouldn't wait for the red. The inexactness of the timing cuts both ways: for all we know, we aren't really that late, but for all we know, we're coming up on The Ineffable One's deadline. In the end, I'd rather have a surgical birth and a definitely healthy baby than wait around for nature to take its course and possibly put baby at some sort of risk. (I'm saying this as someone who was born with her umbilical cord wrapped around her neck three times.)

I'm glad I trusted my instincts enough to ask the Doc to go back for one more look before heading to the operating room. And yo, Mad Props to all my homegirls who wrote in with advice. Girlfriends rock. Is this a decision that I'm absolutely thrilled about? No. But it's one that I feel was made with the best available information and with all appropriate avenues considered. Therefore, I am satisfied with it.

And besides, Bizzleburp could surprise us all yet with a sudden appearance Friday afternoon. Now that the World Series is over and we've peeled Daddy off the ceiling, I think we're about ready. Last night I had a wicked vindaloo; today I guzzled rasberry leaf tea and evening primrose oil, and spent lots of time reassuring Biz that we are not going to name it Manny Ramirez even if it is a boy.