After nine months building anticipation, we were eager to meet child number six. Having lots of practice at this parenting thing, we were calm in the face of the impending new baby onslaught (think diapers, colic, spit up, nights and nights of no sleep). Ahhh, ignorance was bliss.
Before y'all go thinking this is just another birth story . . . we'll fast forward to the excitement. Our perfect little one, whose features and coloring were a great mix of his older brothers and sister, had the requisite 10 fingers and ten toes. He had a cute upturned nose, and typical overgrown belly button. His eyes were open, and he cuddled himself deeper in my arms as I checked these features off.
A few hours later, Baby was taken to the nursery for a bath and a heel stick. A team of doctors came into my room to update me on Baby. Um, hello? Kid number six, number three in this particular hospital, and I'd never had so much as a doctor come in to say "Hi!" So you know someone's reading the script wrong here.
Turns out I was the one with the wrong lines. Our baby did indeed like being the center of attention, and needed a team of doctors on his side. As the doctors explained, Baby's form was as imperfect as my inspection of him must have been.
The doctors threw some words at me -imperforate anus, bowel obstruction, colon, colostomy. As far as I knew, they were speaking Latin. Like the good shell-shocked parent that I was, I kept quiet and listened to their attempts at explaining in the English language. Basically, our little guy had no way to- in their highly educated terminology- poop. No egress whatsoever for the icky stuff. In fact, his "pipe" didn't make it down anywhere near the skin.
" So, Mom, we've moved him to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, and are preparing him for surgery, any questions?"
Just one: When do I wake up?