As I get older, I try to appreciate the small benefits that are only acquired with age: low car insurance rates, not having to freak out when I find a gray hair and, after years of practice, hard work and dedication, having a high tolerance to alcohol. I'm also appreciative of my health because I don't get sick very often. Even when Zach and Zoe had the flu in October and Doug had the flu in December, I somehow managed to escape it all and, unfortunately, was able to take care of everyone. As a result of my good health, I usually only have to go to the doctor once a year.
About a week ago, I managed to act like an adult and actually attend this once-a-year appointment with my OB/GYN. After peeing in the stupid cup (yes, I know I'm a little dehydrated), standing on a defective scale (I wish someone had told me that I was wearing an x-ray apron) and telling Zoe to sit quietly outside the exam room door (a Nintendo DS is great for times like this), I put on the super-stylish pink paper gown and waited.
I've been seeing the same doctor for 20 years and we've been through a lot together, so he is always genuinely interested in how my life is going. It may seem a little weird that we talk about the football season, recent vacations or his kids while I'm doing my best impersonation of a cowgirl, but what am I supposed to say: "How's the view from down there?"
The worst part of the OB/GYN experience is the week between when I write my address on the pink "your test results are negative" post card and when I receive it. There has only been one time that the postcard didn't arrive, and sure enough I received a call instead, notifying me that the tests came back with questionable results, so further testing would be necessary. The results of the additional testing necessitated an undesirable procedure which consisted of having a part of my body that is hidden from view converted into a chunk of ice. A lovely experience, really, and now I know how an ice machine at the Holiday Inn feels.
Ever since then, waiting for that damn post card to arrive is always a nerve wracking experience. I figure that since I tested positive for some fucked-upedness once it's bound to happen again, especially as I get older.
Fortunately, after a week went by, the coveted pink postcard arrived in the mail notifying me that I'm normal (stop laughing). While holding the piece of mail I let out a happy little "Woo hoo!" and Zoe asked me what was up.
"I'm happy because the doctor said I'm healthy, that's all. Remember when I went to the doctor last week and you saw me in that junky pink dress? Oh, and you got to meet the doctor that delivered* you?" As soon as I said this, I instantly knew that she would be confused.
"Delivered me? When was I delivered? I came in a box from that brown truck?" Oh, if only it could be so easy.
"No, Zoe. Before a baby lives in a house or rides in a stroller, it has to grow inside the mom. Then a doctor helps to get the baby out. That's called a delivery."
"That's crazy, and that makes no sense. You're wrong. A delivery comes to the front door, from that man wearing the brown clothes." There was no convincing her otherwise. The girl now thinks that she arrived via UPS.
*When Zach was three, he tried to convince me that I should get another baby. Not have a baby, but get one. In fact, he wanted two: one for him and one for Charlie. His suggestion was that I go to that "Babies R Us store and pick up two babies. Can we do that today?" I guess it's probably a good thing that I couldn't take that approach because considering how crazy Zoe makes her brothers some days, they'd probably be asking for the receipt.