V.I.P word

A month ago, I picked up my teenage stepdaughter from the bus stop.  Her best friend wanted a ride home too so she climbed in the front seat and she started teasing me about being old when I playfully punched her in the arm.  She yelled “Oooooow Erin!  Yesterday, my mom made me get one of those shots so I don’t get vagina warts!”  OMG!  I totally wish they would have had those when I was her age!  KIDDING.  Totally kidding.  Hahahahahaha.  Kidding.  But this incident did remind me that my favorite time of year was coming up: my annual pap!

When I first discovered I was pregnant with my oldest daughter, an overtly anxious and edgy nurse guided me into my gynecologist’s personal office.  She shut the door and averted her eyes.  Interesting. His decorator clearly sought inspiration from Dante’s Inferno, replicating what I too would envision purgatory to look like: thick mahogany furniture, burgundy drapes, walls adorned with 9,000 crosses, frightening pictures of Jesus with blood pouring from his hands and a sad face, framed Bible verses, and pictures of the family patriarch and his 9 adopted, disabled children with forced smiles and matching denim shirts against a indoor backdrop of aspen trees.     

The doctor came in and sat down on his throne.  He took off his glasses and rubbed his temples.  Finally he spoke, asking me if I intended on marrying my baby daddy.  I said “Of course why do you think I got knocked up in the first place?  He is a rich doctor.”  Like Duh, this is everything my parents ever wanted for me.  He frowned, not even cracking a smile at my reallyfunny joke and told me that the situation I got myself into was “between me and Jesus.”  Christ that is.  Yep, I could see the writing on the wall already.  This self-righteous a-hole was totally going to forget to give me an epidural as my penance for having a bastard child.  I had my records transferred that day.  Seriously dude, if I was seeking insuperable guilt I would have just moved back home for no charge.

I called my previously blogged about friend Holly and asked her what I should do.  She told me to go to her gyno who never shamed her about her being pregnant with a love child (incidentally also from a rich doctor.  OMG right?!  How funny is that!)  I called to make an appointment and told the receptionist, “I am not married but verifiably preggers.  Is this going to be an issue?”  “Oh honey, you just come right on in you will just looooove Dr. _________!”  She cooed.  I had never believed in love at first sight until my vagina met Dr. ________.  He looked exactly like Woody from Toy Story, he laughed at everything and his office was cheerful with pictures of cervixes and crowning heads.  I was home.    

I love my gyno.  I love, love, love, love my gyno.  Mike likes to think he was the reason I opted to get pregnant with numero dos.  But truthfully, it was because of Dr. _________ .  I loved going there once a month to see him and his adorable staff.  Every year when I get my letter in the mail saying I scored a “100%” on my pap results (this means good) I put them up on the fridge next to the kids’ spelling tests.  That office makes me feel special and loved.  Not to brag but I am going to: last time I was there his new nurse said “I hear you are a V.I.P. here.”  “Um, Very Important Person or Very Important Word-I-Do-Not-Say-But- Ends-in-Y?”  She never gave me an answer but I didn’t care.  I love that place.  XO

P.S. Happy Birthday Chad L.

P.P.S.  An interesting sidenote:  I also have reason to believe that Holly and I have very similar vaginas without ever verifying my suspicion.  Every single time I am getting examined Dr. ___________ he ALWAYS pokes his head around and asks how she is doing. Coincidence?  I think not.