Yesterday marked my second missed midwife appointment in the past two weeks.
Last week, it was my own damn fault, or really, my husband's, since he decided to change his battery and not reset his car clock, so I rolled up to my daughter's sewing lesson thinking I was early when really, I was almost exactly a half hour late.
So I rescheduled my visit for this week. And really, unless there are major issues, these now weekly visits are actually sort of boring and even slightly depressing.
Yes, I feel like I have to poop all the time. Yes, I just gained 6 lbs in 3 weeks. No, I don't have a yeast infection, it's um, usually, uh, like that.
(Oh whoops, so that's not your typical occurrence, but see what you get after having three kids! So glad I shared that tidbit with you!).
But this week, I was ready - armed with gobs of preregistration paperwork that I had printed out on scrap paper and packed in a used folder (hey, I'm eco-friendly!) and determined to actually pee in the cup the first time without fumbling around because damnit I may not be able to tie my own shoes but I know where my urethra is.
Seriously, I have a Master's degree and cannot pee in a cup to save my life.
And indeed, I arrived early, got my weight, blood pressure, and hemoglobin taken, and stripped down to get my Group Strep B test.
Then I sat for 40 minutes, catching up on Elin Woods' side of the divorce and all the Teen Mom drama that I know way too much about with my ass not so snuggly tucked under a paper blanket, and still no midwife. Her trusty assistant promised me that she'd send her in before the woman waiting for an annual, but alas, I heard the door slam next to me and I knew I was shit out of luck.
Now for the past nine months, I've sat, usually for at least this long, usually longer, but today I had to pick up my daughter from her sewing lesson and I just couldn't wait. And while I love my midwife and midwives in general, who are known to take much longer with their patients than most gynecological professionals, it's a little annoying to have to schedule an entire morning for a visit that should take about ten minutes, if that.
So I put my pants back on and skipped out of there, informing the assistant with my best pissed off pregnant etiquette that I couldn't wait any longer, and no I couldn't come back tomorrow and spend another $5 in parking just to do the same damn thing.
And after nearly chewing out a nice, well-meaning woman in the elevator who asked me "what I had under my shirt, oh is that a watermelon?" Yeah, a 50 fucking pound watermelon, lady I cried all the way to get my daughter. Sobbing, weeping cries.
Because apparently I really really wanted that vaginal swab.