Tell me it’s not just me that gets worried before any doctor’s appointment. Taking my blood pressure makes my blood pressure rise because I’m busy worrying about if my blood pressure is high. Don’t you PUT me near that scale- your shit needs to be calibrated. I know what my scale at home says. I didn’t doctor those numbers! You want me to pee in a cup? What if I can’t pee? What if I get pee everywhere? Are YOU going to touch my pee, look at my pee? That’s gross. Are they going to scold me like a bad little girl for having alcoholic beverages a few nights a week?
All the whose-its and whats-its and gadgets, all shiny, sharp or pointy- and you’re not sure what each is meant for but you’re pretty damns sure it’s going to be a cause of horrific pain and torture- because that’s really what doctors are- torturers. On top of all that, there is the sneaking suspicion that after they take ALL of the blood from your body, they’re going to confirm all those ridiculous searches on WebMD you’ve done over the years and now you’ve only got 2 weeks to live because you didn’t forward that damned chain email to 10 of your friends. Damnit!
To be serious- the doctor really is no fun. Even if you’re just going for a routine check-up, you’re still going to be poked and prodded and questioned. It’s like having a cop car behind you when you’re doing nothing wrong- for some reason you’re still nervous that you’ll be pulled over and given a ticket.
How can we possibly make these situations even more stressful than they already are?
Take your kid/s along with you.
It begins as soon as you walk into the waiting room. I don’t know what it is about that place- but you get the impression the rules are the same as those at the Public Library.
Good luck with that. Especially if the waiting room was designed by sadists and there are no toys or at least one magazine you can convince your spawn was meant for them.
All the nurses seem so kind and compassionate, but the one who calls you back either woke up on the wrong side of the bed or enjoys luring children to her cottage made of candy so that she can bake them into pies in her spare time.
Once you’re finally called back, you beg and plead and even bribe the one more more tag alongs to PLEASE just sit down and be quiet. Please for the love of all that is holy- HUSH. Just sit. It won’t take long, just sit and be quiet, damnit! We can do this! We can get through this in one piece!
One foot inside the exam room and that shit goes out the window. Their eyes widen like they’ve suddenly walked into Willy Wonka’s factory and there is a chocolate fucking waterfall and everything is made of sugar and off they go, pressing buttons and flipping switches and reaching for strange equipment that has probably been in someone else’s orifice five thousand times and YOU PUT THAT THING BACK WHERE YOU FOUND IT OR SO HELP ME! We all channel Mike Wazowski every now and then. By the time the doctor FINALLY comes to your exam room door, you’ve fucking HAD IT.
None of that is the worst part. None of that is enough for me to advise you, to WARN you- NEVER TAKE YOUR KIDS TO YOUR DOCTORS APPOINTMENTS! What could be worse? What could POSSIBLY be worse than all of that combined?
It’s not their hands that won’t stop grabbing, feet that won’t stop kicking, eyes that won’t stop wandering and wondering and that frickin’ BRAIN that won’t stop thinking about the eyes that are wandering and what they see and if they could touch what they see with the hands or kick it with the feet. No. What is worse is their MOUTHS.
Your nurse who eats toddler pie for dessert and your doctor with the cold hands and jabby instruments are going to ask you a lot of questions. Uncomfortable questions. That’s a given. You are expected to answer honestly and openly, because you are supposed to trust this doctor. Maybe even with your life if it comes down to it- but there are still things you don’t want your doctor to know. They don’t need to know.
They’re an eye doctor- what use would they have of knowing that on your next birthday “SHE’LL BE THIRTY!”- they have a chart. They can do the math themselves, no announcement needed.
They’re a foot doctor- why would they need to know that you are on your period and currently have a “cotton tail!”
They’re an orthodontist- I’m SURE they had no interest in knowing that every now and then, you find a bump on your skin that is in desperate need of a squeeze.
Doctors, contrary to childhood belief, do not need to know EVERYTHING. No, they don’t need to know about mommy and daddy’s earwax cleaning habits, or the occasional pick of the nose, or who chews with their mouth open, or how many times per day you went poop and blamed it on the coffee.
Seriously, I know it’s hard to believe kiddies- but they DO NOT NEED TO KNOW.
Actually- let me rephrase- NO ONE needs to know that shit. Not a single soul on the face of the earth needs to hear about ANY of that. Or anything like it.
But if you have kids- lots and lots and LOTS of people will.
Like the old saying goes: “Children seldom misquote you. In fact, they often repeat word for word what you shouldn’t have said”
This also applies to the things that you DO.
So unless you want every medical professional and person on the planet earth know the schedule of your bowels or menstrual cycle- leave those little shits at home!
I know… I know. Impossible. Not gonna happen. No one ever said a girl can’t dream!
I think I’m more likely to win the frickin’ powerball jackpot.
So accurate it's painful pic.twitter.com/B9KQlSx3NO
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