Everywhere I look there’s another bratty child.
I’m quite certain we’ve had this conversation before, and it’s well-known that I don’t like kids. Sure, you’re saying, “but, but MY kid, MY kid is just an angel.”
Well, unless you gave birth to a child who doesn’t produce spit, snot, or shit, and is without tonsils, then you’re child probably isn’t an angel. Just saying.
Or, there is a slight possibility all the good kids are at home and not in my gynecologist’s office lobby. If THAT is the case, maybe you’re right, and all the good children are at home and not out in the world, pissing me off.
So yeah, yesterday it was time for my annual gyno checkup (don’t worry guys, I won’t get into details). As with most doctor-dentist-caretaker types, I do get a little anxiety before my trip to the gyno.
I blame this on two things: 1. My very first trip to the gyno, and 2. the children and pregnant moms I see there.
I didn’t have my first trip to the gyno until I was 20. I didn’t lose my virginity until I was 19, and my parents pretty much avoided all sex-talks of any kind, until I had to be like ok I’m scared I have lady cancer, please take me to the gyno.
I was home from college, fresh off a breakup from a man who simply walked away from me. My mom was trying to do me a favor and she made an appointment with her gyno…who was a man.
Since my mom didn’t have a problem with it, I figured it was no big deal. Before I went to the appointment, they had given my mom a form I needed to fill out—you know, when was your last period? Do you have sex? What forms of contraceptive do you use?
My mom was eyeing the paper as I filled it out, which pissed me off.
So we get to the doctor’s office, and it’s like all pregnant women. They call my name, I change into that oh-so-sexy gown, and while I wait for the doctor to come in, I was reading a tattered copy of John Grisham’s “The Firm.” Nothing like reading a legal thriller while you’re waiting to have your pink lady probed and judged.
My doctor comes in, asks me about the book I’m reading and finds it necessary to get a few laughs in. Whatever. He asks me the standard questions about why I came in, which turns into a huge problem.
Doc: Why did you come in today?
Me: I’m old enough to have an appointment and I’ve been worried about some slight pain in my uterus area, I’m paranoid it’s cancer.
Doc: Why would you think that?
Me: Um, I don’t know? Because I’ve never had it checked out.
Doc: So you’re sexually active, yet you’re not on birth control?
Me: WAS, I was having sex. I’m not anymore. And I’ve heard birth control makes you fat.
Doc: Why do you say you’re not sexually active anymore?
Me: Because I’m not dating anyone anymore, thanks.
Doc: Why did you guys break up?
Me: That’s a little personal and really has nothing to do with my cancer-eaten vagina.
Doc: Well maybe he was cheating on you and gave you an STD.
Then, I cried. Thanks a lot, asshole. I got dressed and went into the lobby to tell my mom her doctor was a fucking asshole and made me feel like a whore, while simultaneously making fun of me for reading John Grisham.
After that, I didn’t go to the gyno for years. But then, I got back to having sex, so I got on birth control and somehow, I didn’t get fat (NuvaRing is awesome).
Now, my pet peeve is simply the kids. I don’t mind pregnant women bringing their other children along, but why are we bringing the entire family? I’m seriously asking. Anyone out there bring their husbands and kids to the gyno? Because I want a logical reason why.
Yesterday, I was sitting in the lobby, in a row of four chairs. There was an older lady next to me, alone, then me, then a mom, and her husband. Dancing around us all was a bratty spit machine who kept taking off his shoes. His parents were doing that half-ass punishment, “come on, put your sh—no, put your shoe on!”
The mom was willing to do just about anything to make this kid happy, including switching seats. At first, she let the kid sit next to me. Which got her one dirty look from me, capped off with a loud sigh and a dramatic look at my watch. She switched back. Then traded with her husband, which got a nice yell from her kid, “NO, I WANNA SIT NEXT TO DAD-DYYYY.”
Fucking lil bastard. I’d never been so happy to hop on that scale and wear the ugly gown.