If I was in a spelling bee, the word gynaecology would get me every time. So for this blog’s purposes he shall be known simply as the doctor. Possibly a more inventive handle might occur to me given time, but that’s it for now.
So I booked my doctor’s appointment for tomorrow morning, 10.30am sharp, and the whole conversation with the receptionist felt very weird.
“Is it just a check-up?” she asked.
“Well, kind of,” I mumbled.
“Ah, are you pregnant?”
“Well no. But I want to be.”
Obviously she has versions of this conversation every day, but for me it was loaded with emotion. It is ridiculous, at 39, I suppose to wonder if I am grown up enough to have a baby. But I do. And the thought of sitting down with a doctor and saying it out loud all over again makes me squirm. It makes me feel as though I am back in school going to the principal’s office. Will he pull out some kind of quizz and find me lacking? Am I really old enough/responsible enough/worthy enough to have a child? He once told me to “love myself” after I had rushed in for a set of sexual health checks when I first started seeing the man who I now want to be the father of my adorable offspring. All the way home from that appointment I had a mental conversation about whether I did indeed love myself – I was sure I had before I went to his office. God knows what he will say to me tomorrow. Waaaah.
A friend I confided in told me today that getting pregnant and looking after a baby was actually the gentle part of a slope that turns into more of a cliff around the time they turn two. Whoa Nelly! I thought, that is getting way ahead of myself. If I could just coax my lovely uterus and egg store into action to put me on that gentle slope I would be very, very grateful. Thinking positive thoughts of angels and friendly ducks and a whimsical world to speed the process…