Extranjera's guide to being pregnant: When to know you're fucked (not in the good way), fuck the fucker right back, and only remain mildly fucked, but with a whiff of glory.

Yesterday, when I blogged about coming home with an actual baby, seems that I may have spoken too soon.

Jinxed it big time.

Or, as we Finns so 'eloquently' put it (remember that our poetic language houses more swear words than any other, made up [Klingon, Swedish], or otherwise), I seem to have 'started licking before the drop had actually fallen off whatever it was hanging on'. I said 'eloquent', not sanitary, or sane.

There are complications.

It seems that as we were proudly handling the diagnosis of Down syndrome, learning more about it, coming to terms with it, rising above it, being completely fine with it, telling people to shut up and fuck off for not understanding how cool we were with it, and just plain looking forward to meeting our special and not so special (Let's face it, the Viking and his genes can be pretty generic sometimes. Me? I have been referred to as special enough times for it to sink in so deep that I do believe I will be passing it on to generations to come, whether they like it or not) little one, and thinking that this was what Universe had in store for us as far as her curve balls go. But no. Universe, the giant bitch, was planning to aim at my un-helmeted head with the next pitch instead.

"There is a problem with the flow in the umbilical cord," the doctor tells us, "that means there'll soon be a problem with her getting oxygen and nutrients, and such."

"Her growth is restricted too," he goes on, "she is in the 5th percentile"

"She'll have to be born soon via a c-section," he finishes off.

But we already knew something like this was coming, so we nodded, made mental notes about already packing that mysterious thing called a hospital bag, and kind of braced ourselves for the early arrival of our kiddo, and willed her to pull through facing this world possibly a full 10 weeks before she was ever meant to.

"Oh, one more thing," the doctor then decided to add, "the doctor at the ultrasound also mentioned that the bones in her head might be prematurely fusing, but we'll have to wait a few more months to get a proper diagnosis, so that's not something to worry about now."

So instead of her having to take on the big playground with the aid of one extra chromosome, she might also come loaded with the diagnosis of craniosynostosis and whatever that might entail in terms of surgeries and hospital visits. If the cause for this doesn't turn out to be that her brain has stopped developing, that is.

This is approximately when we knew we, all three of us, were utterly fucked (not in the good way).

And what does one do when one finds out one is hugely fucked?    

Well, if one is me, one cries a little in the car, then some more back at the apartment, and then one Googles some hard core information, comes to terms with things, and gets on with the living of that life that involves watching bad television and eating some cajeta ice-cream.

Because, and this is the only way to get on with things, one has to bear in mind how fucking fortunate one is on this earth.

We have to bear in mind that regardless of the feeble attempts by the Universe to kick up her pitching skills, we've pretty much owned the game right from the beginning (Does anyone else find it odd that I'm using baseball as my game of choice? Because I do.).

Our babe owns the game. She kicks and fights (as only my bladder/ ribs can tell you) and wisely decided to be born to us, two people with major resources, healthy appetites for Googling obscure research, and even major-er will to get things done (Unless that thing be showering on a day with nothing on the agenda. But that's a different post, possibly involving laundry, a talking fridge, and/or shoes.).

We are the fortunate ones in this world. The ones with the power, the possessions, the knowledge, and the potential.

We are the ones who have enough left over for those who have nothing.

And that's what the Universe can stick in her pipe and smoke.

I remain only mildly fucked, but with a whiff of glory. I am superwoman after all.

      Some people don't even have shoes because some other person threw them up on some wires.

What do you mean by a sign that this is where you can score heroin? I took this pic from our old back yard in Mexico City.

Geez.