Just as I neared the GYN office, my phone rang.
“I’m so sorry, Cindy,” my friend said, true remorse weighing down every word. “But TWO really wants to come home. She’s fine–she just says she really misses you.“
Of course she did.
“Don’t worry about it,” I assured my friend, hoping I sounded convincing. Because really, it wasn’t her fault. TWO simply can’t resist a visit to the GYN office. (Even when I purposely didn’t tell her about it.)
Five minutes later…
“So…where are we going, Mama?“
“To the doctors’ office.”
“Do I need to get a shot?”
“No, Sweetie. The appointment is for me.“
“Do you need to get a shot?“
“Nope,” I sighed. A shot would be so much easier. “The doctor just has to check my vagina.”
“WHAAAAAAAAAT? A doctor for your gy-nie?” Giggle. Giggle. Giggle. “That’s so silly.” Pause. “I didn’t know there were such things as gy-nie doctors.” Giggle. Giggle. Giggle.
Riiiiiiiiiiight. Of course she didn’t.
TWO has an exhaustive history at the GYN office. Between my third pregnancy, the Mirena fiasco, and the fact that she’s been home with me for the last five years, TWO will be more than ready to take the stir-ups by the time she’s handed a paper gown.
“Do they have shots for gy-nies?” Giggle. Giggle. Giggle. “Can you ask for one? Not for me, my gy-nie doesn’t want one. But yours might.” Giggle. Giggle. Giggle.
Me, on the other hand…I may not make it that long.
I’m not so prude with my own kids that I’m embarrassed about vaginas and such. I’ve had one my whole life, and I rather like it. Also? When you co-exist with professional bathroom bargers who pause to stare before registering your plea for solitude–and the fact that you birthed those individuals in a somewhat public arena–your vagina kind of gets used to the lack of privacy. Not that it’s ever fun. But I knew it would be okay, because I had the games on my phone to offer, and there wasn’t a sister to share them with.
“No, thank you!” TWO announced, handing my phone back as I got situated beneath the crunchy paper gown. “I want to see what’s going on with your gy-nie.” Giggle. Giggle. Giggle. “I see your butt, Mama. Heeeeeeeey…I forgot you had a tattoo. What is it again?”
One of the downsides to being Type-A is general inflexibility. The headaches that happen when life plays the old switcheroo. Say you had your afternoon planned. Playdate drop-off. Quick trip to the GYN. Swing by the grocery store. Get a coffee. Pick up darling child, etc. And darling child, who is now wound up from the beginning-of-playdate snack, plus the bribe-to-stay snack, and the please-stay-away-from-the-paper-gown snack, now feels trapped in a small room and needs to climb and explore everything. And there isn’t much in there of interest. Minus what’s exposed, of course. Type-As and their vaginas pretty much despise this type of center-of-attention-ness
“Mama? Can you say ‘ouch’ when the doctor checks your gy-nie?”
“I don’t want to startle her while she’s…I mean, it doesn’t hurt.”
“Please say ‘ouch’ anyway? For me?”
The doctor came in, momentarily surprised by our audience. I guess she hadn’t heard TWO’s impromptu rendering of the recently composed “Gy-nie Song.”
TWO sat still during the exam, asking only once to “see” what was going on. After a polite, but firm, answer in the negative, TWO reached for my phone. I checked over from time to time, though, just to make sure she wasn’t taking pictures. You never know with her.
As I paid for my exam, TWO announced, “You know, you didn’t say ‘ouch’ when she was checking your gy-nie.”
I looked around at the faces in the waiting room. Smiles.
The staff behind the glass. Smiles.
TWO. Smile. Stiffled giggles.
© 2012 CEK. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
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