When you’re of baby-making age but not making a baby, trips to the OBGYN are hammer-blow reminders of who you are not.
Waiting rooms full of pink chairs and women with round, expectant bellies. A bulletin board plastered with photos of your smiling doctor holding newborns, though you’ve never actually met the doctor; your annual pap is only worthy of the nurse practitioner. The questionnaire on a clipboard, “How many children do you have? How many live births?” Heels pressed into cold, stainless steel stirrups with accompanying lecture — while lying there, legs splayed, staring at the ceiling — about how women who do not give birth are more prone to breast, uterine and cervical cancers.
The blast of energy it takes to happy-talk your way through the appointment and get the hell out of there.
I’ve barely been at this stepmother thing six months, but I’ve already learned an important lesson: there is always someone to remind me who I am not.
Sometimes it’s the mom across the street or at the bus stop; sometimes it’s my son’s teacher at back-to-school night; and sometimes it’s just me staring into a mirror.
Today that someone appeared in the form of an OBGYN nurse behind the receptionist’s window.