Paper Towel Micro-Mini

I am now on an every-two-week OB appointment schedule. I guess they figure hey--she's 30 weeks pregnant, what else is she doing? Whatever. I don't want to argue, so I roll on in, and face the scale.

Today was my appointment. I am something like 31 weeks and 5 days. We were not scheduled for an ultrasound or anything "cool," so Jerry didn't go with me. He was at work, so Grace did.

My doctor had been called away to the hospital for a delivery. Would I like to see another doctor? Come back later in the afternoon? Reschedule? I was there. I was dressed. I was even wearing mascara. I had just single-handedly wrestled Grace into public-appropriate clothing and managed to keep her clean from the house to the car AND during the 45-minute ride to the Doctor's office. Did I mention it was apparently monsoon season, and we were both now dripping from the jog (yes, 8-months-pregnant and wearing flip-flops, toting a toddler and a 45-lb diaper bag RAN in the rain) from the car to the door? All I could do was stare at the nurse, trying to think of a decent way to express my sentiment. It must have been obvious, because before I could say anything, she looked me over, turned to her clipboard, and mumbled, "I'll put you on the shortest list."

After chasing Grace around the waiting room for a bit, I was called back. Weight gain? 2 pounds in 2.5 weeks--not bad! Blood pressure? Lovely considering the waiting room Olympics in which I had just contended. When the nurse asked me if there were any problems or changes, I mentioned I'd been having a good number of Braxton Hicks contractions. (I know it was because we just got back from a road trip and I was doing a lot of chasing Grace around in the heat, but I promised Jerry I'd mention it, so I did.) So, because of this, the nurse assumes the doctor will want to check me and hands me a paper blanket thingy, escorts me and Grace to a room, gives us the once over and says, "Bottoms off. " She leaves the room.

There we are. The three of us. Me, Grace, and the paper blanket thingy, which, for a normal-sized non-pregnant woman who is not chasing around and 11-month-old, I'm sure it drapes nicely over the lap.... I can picture this serene woman, lounging fully-covered, flipping through the latest issue of Vogue, waiting patiently for the doctor. Believe me, this was not the picture in MY exam room...

I had to settle for wrapping the thing around me and tucking it, like a towel while I chased Grace around the room. She was due for a nap, which for some reason always results in hyperactivity...So, as I'm crouched down, simultaneously trying to coax her into reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar, again, and pry the mystery medical instrument she just discovered in a drawer out of her fist, she decides that Mommy's paper dress looks interesting. She grabbed a fist-full and pulled. The second her little hand ripped the paper, her eyes lit up. She was either attracted to the ripping noise or the sound of my dignity flying out of the window. Suddenly, the child was all hands. Every time I looked at her, she had another fist-full of paper.

So, by the time the doctor, WHO WAS NOT EVEN MY DOCTOR OR PERSONALLY KNOWN TO ME, came in to check me, I was perched on the floor reading Brown Bear, Brown Bear, holding the biggest piece of the blanket thingy Grace had left me, which was, by the way, no bigger than a cocktail napkin. I just looked up and smiled.

The contractions were probably because I was dehydrated. Everything was/is fine. Wesley is measuring right on track. I'm to keep up the good work, etc. And I pray I never have to look that doctor in the face again.

Grace's birthday is next week. People keep asking me what appropriate gifts would be. Seems to me paper cover-ups pilfered from Doctor's offices would be ideal and cost-effective.