When You Have To Take Your Kids To The Gynecologist With You

After my third C-section, I opted for a tubal ligation. Let’s face it, I’m older than dirt, lucky to have had three successful pregnancies resulting in three healthy babies, and the idea of becoming a party of six was not an option I wanted to consider – actually, just the thought of a fourth baby would wake me up in a cold sweat. No, three was perfect. Lucky number 3. Three it was.

So, after I’d decided on elective sterilization, wouldn’t you imagine life would become all kittens and roses and sexual encounters with my husband at the drop of a hat? One would think that would be the case. Now the only problems stopping that from becoming a reality were twofold: a) Now we had 3 fucking kids, and b) My period was now in da hizouse for 21 days a month. After six months of bleeding like I was dying, I was finally able to get an appointment with my (very busy) gynecologist. I booked a sitter, loaded up on double maxi pads, super plus tampons, and a bevy of iron supplements, and waited patiently for my appointment date.

I stood by the front door, checking my watch diligently when the babysitter was due to arrive. I called when she was five minutes late and was sent to voicemail. Fuck! I could not miss this appointment! All of my undergarments were slowly but surely being added to the once small pile classified as “period underwear.” I was, literally, a quart low.

That’s when I made the dreadful decision. “Come on kids, get on your shoes. Mommy has a doctor’s appointment and you’re coming with me.”

“Oh, do you have to get shots? I hate getting shots,” my oldest declared as I buckled him in his car seat.

“No, I don’t think I need a shot,” I muttered. Visions of my legs in the stirrups with my sons looking on in wonder flashed through my head.

As I checked in for my appointment, the other waiting room occupants looked at me as if I was nuts. “Yes, yes,” I thought to myself, “I’m the fucking nut job who has three kids at the gynecologist.” I considered saying something snarky like, “We homeschool, this is biology class,” to the bitch looking down her bifocals at me, but I thought better of it. Because she was right. This situation was absolutely insane.

When we finally were situated in the examination room, I started to really panic. What the hell was I doing with my kids here? What’s a little blood coming out of my hoo-ha like the Jordan River? I can handle that for another month. I need to go.

I was holding the paper dressing gown in one hand, my purse in the other, when I looked at my kids. The baby was sleeping and the older two? Happily playing on their electronics. “Holy shit,” I marveled to myself, “They don’t even care that we’re here.”

I quickly undressed, propped myself up on the examination table and waited for my doctor. All while thanking the shit out of Steve Jobs for his Apple creations.

The exam was in full swing and I’d almost forgotten my kids were even there. My mind was too busy concentrating on the pain of my doctor’s ministrations. I had my eyes squeezed shut when I heard the distinct shutter of my camera phone, erupting in quick succession. “What the fuck,” I thought to myself as I opened my eyes, picked up my head, and noticed my 4-year-old standing behind my doctor, with my phone pointed directly at my spread-eagle lady garden.

“UMM, Honey,” I said in a cautious tone, “What are you doing?” This needed to be handled with kid gloves. I was in no position to make threats or demands. That little shit might as well have been pointing a loaded gun at me.

“I’m taking some pictures for daddy,” he said sweetly, his face concentrating on the screen as he snapped away.

“Buddy,” steady now, don’t blow this, “Can I have my phone, please?” I cajoled.

“OK,” he sang, “I’m done.”

“Done?” I muttered. Oh shit, what does “done” mean? No kid ever hands over the phone without a fight. My mind flashed to a million different scenarios. The most threatening were pictures of my wide open vagina on Twitter, or Facebook, or sent out in an email to all of my contacts. OMG, this will kill my grandmother! Jesus Christ, I’m like a Kardashian. But worse, I didn’t even get paid. This is, without a doubt, the most embarrassing thing in the history of my life.

I held my breath as my kid passed me the phone …

And there they were. 43 consecutive toddler selfies, taken as only a 4-year-old can when they don’t know how to reverse the camera.

The moral of this story is that if you must take your kids to the absolute LAST place you actually want to take them, just remember it may turn out just fine. If you have an iPhone. Set on airplane mode.