The way Robin sees it, she has three options.

Option One: Contact Barney, and address his concerns in a rational and adult manner, negotiate a concrete time for her return home, and enjoy her vacation for the rest of its mutually agreed-upon duration. She can send him a picture of her in the Jacuzzi, to assure him the temperature is set low enough that it's safe for Robin Junior. The doctor gave them a pamphlet about that. She thinks. She's pretty sure one of them had to be about Jacuzzis, because Barney asked about that. He asked about everything, or at least it seemed like it. What foods she could eat — pizza was fine, in moderation — when they could have sex. Huh. She shifted in the bath. That could be something.

Maybe she could send him a picture for his private file, to take his mind off things while she's at it. Distract him. Jacuzzi selfie, suggestive caption. Wish you were here, because she kind of does, if he wouldn't be weird about everything. The bottle of champagne really should go back in the mini fridge, and she probably will put it there, when she gets out, because, okay, she can see how it would look, despite the fact that it's there for decoration only.

Barney kind of freaks about stuff like that. Freaks out about everything, really. Dude even put his fingers in his ears and hummed "Come On, Eileen," when Robin tried to figure out how many drinks Robin Junior had already, technically, had, before they even suspected it wasn't the chili fries, and Robin might, possibly, improbably, what-the-hell-are-the-odds-on-that-one, be maybe even a little bit pregnant. Once she saw the plus sign on the pee stick, that was it for the hard stuff, but before then? It's not like there's some kind of alarm that goes off at conception to let the mother — Robin still can't think of herself as a mother. That's about as alien a concept as Barney studying for the Canadian citizenship exam, except the kid thing is actually going to happen. — know it's last call for the next nine months. Longer than that if she's going to breast feed. Which was one of Barney's first questions, his attention focused on her chest, not her face. She doesn't know. She's got time to figure that out. Right now, she just wants to look at the bottle, that's all. Okay, maybe take it home and pop the cork when she's popped out Robin Junior. She'll need a stiff drink after that. She's seen Lily, and Tracy, so she knows how that goes, and, really, if there's a time a woman needs a drink, that would be it. She can't have one, though, and she won't, but she doesn't want to put it back yet. So she's not Skyping Barney right now, which leads her, once the Canucks make a truly spectacular play that is a thing of beauty, to the next item on her mental list.

Option Two: Retreat behind the Maple Curtain and have the baby in Canada. At least there, she'd have the home court advantage. All right, fine, she would in New York as well, but the fact is, she would and Barney wouldn't. He'd grumble about following her, but he would, because they're married and they're having a kid, so that's not even a question. She could tell him that this is how they do whatever in Canada, and he'd have to believe her. She'd have some measure of control. There hasn't been a lot of that lately, with all these big changes coming at them all at once. All Robin wants is one thing to stay the same. One thing to remain familiar. Failing that, she'll settle for Barney being the one thrust into a situation where he can't get his footing, for a change.

Not that she wants to see him suffer. Okay, maybe a little bit, but not in a mean way. She wouldn't laugh at him or anything, and she's not going to throw another toaster. What she wants is for him to understand. She wants him to get how big this is for her. Everything is about the baby, and she's ...she's here. She's still who she was before she was pregnant, needs to see that Barney is still Barney. Still vain and inappropriate and blockheaded and fun. Sure, they'll have plenty of fun, the three of them, but the clock is ticking on how much time they have when it's just the two of them. He wouldn't be any fun in Canada, so she wouldn't have any fun in Canada. She's not going to Canada.

Option Three: Seek advice from a qualified, impartial, source, gather information and proceed in the appropriate direction. She can't think of an objection to that. She's also done with the good part of her pizza slice. The crust looks kind of funny, anyway, or maybe it's the light from the TV, reflected off the not-as-subtle-as-the-designer-thought-they-were gold veins in the mirror. She sets the crust on the edge of the tub. She's done with food. She thinks. For now.

The flour or whatever the crumbly stuff on the pizza was sticks to her fingers. She plunges her hand beneath the water. It lands between her hipbones. Still feels normal. She spares a casual, hey, kiddo, anyway, because that's only polite, right? Maybe. Probably. She's never done this before. Didn't think she'd be doing it ever. What she needs is the wisdom from those who know better. Which is, she admits, everybody. Plenty of experts. What she's lacking, though, is the impartial aspect.

Lily has three kids, so she's the most expert, but not even close to impartial. Same with Tracy. Ted? Forget it. She crosses that possibility right off. Marshall gets a definite maybe, but he and Lily have no secrets, so she might as well consider them one two-headed creature. She runs through a list of possibilities in her head. There aren't many. Her mother is out, as is Barney's. Stepmothers are out, too. Carol doesn't have kids, and Cheryl's priority would be Jerry, whose priority would be Barney. No help there.

Kevin is completely out. Hey, guess what, ex-fiance, who couldn't handle my infertility? My current husband — Barney, by the way, you remember Barney — got me pregnant and we're having some issues dealing with it. Any tips? She's not asking Kevin. That's about it for qualified professionals she personally knows, unless she wants to stretch the definition.

The screen flicks from the game to a commercial. Hockey players in nothing but team-color towels argue about the best formula of deoderant. Blue towels want spray. White towels want stick. The debate over original scent versus winter fresh seems to cross color barriers. Sticks clash. Hockey sticks, not deoderant sticks, because that would be dumb. A whistle splits the room as the ref steps in. Blah, blah, something about a revolutionary gel formula, conveniently available in both scents, website, free sample, whatever. She can hear Barney's scoff of derision from here. She's not listening to the commercial.

It's the ref who holds her attention. He's not going to see fifty again; probably left it in the rearview mirror before winterfresh was even a note on some deoderant guy's napkin. Blondy-gray beard, hair in a ponytail, intense eye contact with the camera, which is kind of freaking her out. She grabs for her towel and inches out of the tub. Dude looks like Clint. He holds the blue and white packaging next to his face as the camera zooms in for a closeup. Damn. Dude is Clint. She wraps the towel around herself and tucks the edge beneath her arm. Clint winks at the camera. The players slap each other on their backs, and, easy as that, she knows what she has to do.