Carol's Caravan of Fertility rolls into the OR, where Dr. Coburn is waiting. She asks what happened, and Lisa briefly catches her up. Dr. Coburn tells her to scrub in. Mark totally oversteps his bounds as Lamaze coach and says that Lisa has her hand on the cord: "Get someone else." Dr. Coburn asks Mark, "Do you want to assist on a C-section?" Mark admits, "Not really," and Lisa takes off to scrub, leaving everyone else to lift Carol onto the operating table. Through gritted teeth, Carol says, "Mark, you gotta save the baby." He says he will (like, DUH! What do you think he's doing right now -- his taxes?), and she says, "No, PROMISE ME." Okay, get the epidural man back; she needs a local on her mouth. Mark calls for the anaesthesiologist (perhaps hearing my anguished cries, somehow, over Carol's), but Dr. Coburn says there isn't time, and that since Carol had an epidural she shouldn't need additional anaesthesia. Carol whimpers, "Save my baby!" some more. Apparently they only have one minute to get "from skin to baby." Dr. Coburn makes the first incision (which I didn't need to see, thanks), and asks someone to mark the time. Blah blah blah placentacakes, they get the baby out; it's a girl, and she's pretty blue. Carol asks, "Is she out?" Mark says she is. Carol asks why she isn't crying, and Mark says, "She will." Don't worry, Carol; you've been crying enough for a whole football team of newborns. Carol looks over and sees Smurfette in the bassinet and starts freaking out over the look of her -- enough that she misses Dr. Coburn remarking that her "uterus is boggy." Seriously, if I didn't already have a thousand reasons at the ready for why I shouldn't ever have kids, the possibility that my uterus could end up "boggy" would be reason enough unto itself. I have enough problems already; I don't need to have sedges and moss and cattails and eerily preserved centuries-old dead Irishmen south of the border, if you know what I'm saying. Anyway, Lisa and Dr. Coburn fight their way through the marsh while Carol demands of Mark the "Apgar" on the baby. Mark tells her it's okay, but Carol isn't satisfied until he answers, "Five-minute Apgar is more predictive." Carol pules. I puke.