I’m still trying to figure quite what the nurse meant when she said “how can you have five kids and only weight $^#%@?” This particular nurse is very friendly, past the point of my comfort level, so I was actually not quick on my feet. My dad helpfully suggested, after the fact, that I should have pointed out that I didn’t have all five kids on me at the time, which would indeed help with the weight. She asked me last week if I ran, to which I did respond “only when the situation required it and I have yet to encounter that situation.”
I dread doctors and nurses in general. I’ve actually had almost completely good experiences with them, and when it comes to prenatal care and delivery, I have no complaints at all. But still, it’s just the disparity that comes with the relationship. I’m broken and you’re telling me what’s wrong with me. Yeah, I don’t dig that. I freely own it’s a pride thing, what can I say, I’m prefer my self diagnoses, which I then share with the interwebz.
I think part of the problem is that they have to take everything seriously. So when they ask me “Do you feel safe at home” and I respond “I think my kids are trying to kill me. That’s the only explanation for why they fight over the things they do. It’s all about the early grave” they will ask “how old are your kids, are we talking teenagers?” Of course this leaves me wondering “how bad do I look that you think I have teenagers?” Total backfire. They also don’t seem to be amused by the responses “well, he only beats me when I’m sassy” and “I feel safe but don’t ask him how he feels.” Apparently, variety is not the spice of life for the intake nurse.
Maybe I’m not as amusing as my pregnant mind tells me. While percolating X-Man, through a particularly challenging day, I stopped to pick up dinner. The sweet, most likely seventeen year old, checker asked me “You having a good day ma’am?” I let the ma’am slide, looked at him and said “I’m pregnant and buying pizza and m&ms, how do you think my day is going?” He looked alarmed and asked “So you need help out?”
I choose sarcasm because it’s preferable to thinking about reality. I’m a month away from bringing a fifth child into this world. I’m about to commit myself to another two years of diapers, and oh yeah, labor. For the first time in eight years, I’ll have to work with two car seats. While maintaining the illusion of control over my three other children. I have actually thrown in the towel, and we haven’t even started yet. This me, setting up Camp Denial. Come on by, the panic’s high.