By Guest Blogger Thea DeLoreto

If you don’t like to read or think about the OB/GYN stop reading now. Also stop reading if you are my brother or my Dad. Seriously. Stop.

Yesterday I had to go for my yearly lady visit. Of course it was a non-school day and no one wanted to watch my daughter because she has a cold. And you can’t reschedule those appointments, because it is like 6 months before then can possibly squeeze you in. Lots of Paps out there that need smearing, I suppose. So to the doc we went. Me and Her Highness and a bag of candy. This had disaster written all over it. In all caps. And sharpie.

We got there and only had to wait a few minutes. Every second of that time was filled with verbal diarrhea. First she asked me what all the other people in the waiting room were there to see the doctor about, an intense discussion about Doc McStuffins with a very nice stranger who had no idea what she was talking about, and a running commentary about the bee-utiful (only to a three year old and the people who decorate doctor’s offices) fake flower arrangement towering in the middle of the office at a minimum of 5 feet high.

To the back we were whisked with a quick yet depressing stop at the scale, and then a pee in the cup which involved a running chat about me being very carefule not to pee-pee on my hand. Hey kid, this ain’t my first rodeo. I got this. Also, she insisted on getting weighed and taking a tinkle, so it was really less of a whisk and more of a snail crawl that involved taking one’s shoes off and intensive hand washing. Sorry, 3 other people who were waiting for their fun on the scale.

Into the room we went, where the nurse took my stats while child intensely questioned every move that she made. Nursie did a good job not letting it slow her down. She must have kids. She knew how to play through the pain. She hurried out, leaving me with a robe and a sheet and a kid. She should have taken the kid. Why didn’t she take the kid?

And there we sat. And when I say sat, I mean that I stood in the robe and my birthday suit, while Her Highness laid on the exam table and read magazines and ate candy and we chatted and played I Spy and she asked me questions about the breast check poster and a picture of a mammogram. For. An. Hour. AN HOUR. Surely there was a code beside my name in the computer that indicated that I had a child in there with me who is three and loud and overly chatty. If there was a code no one cared. Nor did they care when I stuck my head out of the door and gave them the stink eye, or when  Honey Badger ran around the room banging on every wall while singing Call Me Maybe as loud as possible. Still nothing. I was worried everyone was in the break room eating Panera and having a lunch and learn, getting those free little little stirrup snuggies or discussing herpes medicines.

Then the doc finally came in. And let me tell you people. There is nothing quite like having a pelvic with your three year old in the room. It is uncomfortable. In every way. Every time she even acted like she was going to get out of her seat I threatened her with terrible things. Like blankie going to live on a farm, or no more candy ever for the rest of her life. It was a long two minutes. And she kept trying to determine exactly what was going on under the sheet with questions like, “mama what’s she doin’?” and “hey, what’s that thing?” I did the only thing I could. Giggle nervously and ignore her.

I can only assume she has been scarred for life. I know I am. Never do this people. Reschedule. Cancel. Pay the fee. Pay the sitter. Use Wed MD for those symptoms. It’s. Not. Worth. It.

Then I did what any amazeballs mom would do. I erased the trauma of seeing her mother get her ladygarden inspected by taking her to get her first real haircut. Where they cut off all her hair. Which lead to sobbing and tears and more candy and finally french fries. It was a rough day. I have to admit the fries made me feel a lot better though.