Yesterday morning I had my six week check-up - Truett will be six weeks on Tuesday so I was a few days early. I remember right after we brought him home thinking WOW, SIX WHOLE WEEKS. I'll never get there. That's like, right around the time he'll be filling out college applications and then banging his head into the wall because HE JUST DOESN'T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH HIS LIFE. So far into the future.
But no, I woke up yesterday and realized first that it was 8:15, ah yes, plenty of time for my 9:10 AM appointment. Plenty of time for my 9:10 AM appointment scheduled at least a fifteen minute drive away. And we have to nurse. And it's the doctors office so I pretty much HAVE to shower.
So there I was on the couch nursing Truett, willing him to fill up fast and fall asleep so I could shower and you know what? Willing a newborn to do anything is about as productive as asking Sadie to please stop freaking out over the mail man EVERY. DAMN. DAY. It's the MAIL MAN. The SAME EXACT ONE WHO COMES EVERYDAY. SHUT UP. BAAAAAAAARK!!!!
Instead of my perfectly thought-out plan I ended up having to plop Truett into his crib while he was still awake, but at least he was milk happy. And I do believe that breast milk to babies = several glasses of cold white wine to Hope. Kind of like an SAT comparison, except this one makes so much more sense. Naturally though I wasn't going to get off that easy, nuh uh. By the time I got out of the shower, Truett was fussing and even though I hollered some comforting words his way, he was pretty pissed when I finally did pick him up, after screeching heels all over the house trying to gulp a cup of coffee and pull on a dress. I looked into the mirror briefly before we left, all proud of myself that I was showered and dressed and even had earrings on. The only thing giving me away were my totally red eye balls. Pot head OR NEW MOTHER? You know what I'm thinking right now but I won't even bother writing it because I'm just too tired and it's too easy and obvious.
Truett calmed down a little for the car ride but then began to scream when we pulled off the exit, sort of a, "I know we're getting close to the doctor's office," type of scream. The kind where he is good RIGHT up until the moment when I REALLY would appreciate some quiet. But I wasn't too worried because this is an OBGYN office, right? The kind where lots of women are pregnant, some have their kids with them even? Except I was the only one in the office with a baby. There were several pregnant women though and I avoided all kinds of eye contact because I didn't have the heart to raise my weary head and look them in the eye. All red and shit. Um, hi, this is what you have to look forward to - enjoy the rest of your day! So Truett yelled in the office and I was tempted to pull out a boob but if I'd done that a. I would have been immediately called to the back or b. I would have been met with the glare-y eyes of all of the Second Baptist Church of Holy Mount Oak Primitive We Don't Show Our Boobs Out In Public You Are Going To Hell Church and I just didn't have the energy for that fight.
When we were eventually called back I was asked to give a urine sample. I'm sorry, I know that's gross but that's not really my point. My point is that SCREAMING NEWBORN. And the nurse just sort of looks at me, all nonchalant, and points to the bathroom. So I huffle in there, Truett yelling while I lumber around with an enormous diaper bag/purse and his heavy ass car seat. To pee in a cup. Have you ever been the ballet? Yes? That's what it looked like probably.
After that warm and fuzzy experience I was asked to sit in the little exam room and wait for the doctor. And wait, and wait, which you knew was going to happen. Oh! Hold on! BEFORE ALL OF THIS GUESS WHO I SAW? Bitch who DELIVERED Truett. The one I don't have very good memories of? Maybe the one I am being a little unfair about but still I heard that whistly sound from the movies and SWEAR I saw a tumbleweed roll by. Sadly, no gun.
At this point I didn't care, I whipped out a boob and started feeding Truett which at least brought my blood pressure down to somewhere around butter-filled-bacon level when the doctor walked in. And oh! Hello doctor. I know you are desperately trying to hold eye contact while I sit here half nude in front of you feeding my son but you've seen my cooch. Let's stop pretending. WHICH IS WHEN HE WAS PAGED FOR A DELIVERY.
Pause. Blink. Sob.
Luckily that baby came out far faster than mine and he was back in about fifteen minutes. We finished the exam, Truett stayed relatively quiet and I was cleared for sex. I'M SORRY. Especially if you are my mom or someone I barely know reading this but IT'S WHAT YOU WERE THINKING ANYWAY. I vote, instead of calling it the six week check-up, let's just rename it the Can I Have Sex Now? check-up. We all know it's the main reason for the exam so why not? When someone says they just go back from the doctor after having baby six weeks ago...you know, THAT appointment? Every parent in the world just nods and kind of winks internally because YES, we know.
And that is why yesterday was harrowing.
