A Letter to My OBGYN

Dear Esteemed Doctor,

Well, can you believe it? Here we are again, about to start our second pregnancy together. I regret to inform you, probably as much as you regret to hear, that it is your unhappy task of dealing with me for the next nine months. I think I know what I can expect from you; a prescription for prenatal vitamins, monthly and then weekly appointments, you catching the baby… yada yada yada

But I wanted to write you a letter to enclose in this sympathy card here to let you know what you can expect from me.

Three words for you oh mighty wielder of the stethoscope: buckle up, buttercup.

A list of my demands: 

What You can Look Forward To Whenever We See Each Other:

As you well know from our first trip around the delivery room together: pregnancy turns me into an angry nauseated hippopotamus. (It’s not me, its the baby…. ok its me)

I am composing this formal letter to humbly request the right to complain to you for the next nine months about anything and everything that happens to my body. I’d like you in return to wholeheartedly pretend to offer out your deepest sympathy and condolences. I will accept sympathies in the following forms: a furrowed brow, an understanding head nod, a pat on the shoulder or an outrageous lie about how well I’m doing this pregnancy.  (If you’d like to go ahead and give me an epidural to shut me up now I think that would be wise and save me a lot of time and energy complaining to you. Your office staff will no doubt thank you as well.)

You know that annoying friend who always wants to tell you all about the “crazy!” dreams they had last night? That friend is now me. All bug-eyed frowns or staring off into deep space as I poorly offer up jumbled details of said dreams will NOT be appreciated and immediately punishable by a stony death stare and crocodile tears from yours truly.

I also would like you to pretend you’ve never seen such a svelte pregnant patient at any time in your years of practice. Tell me I hardly look a day over 20 weeks when I waddle into my 35 week appointment. Comment on the natural sheen my hair has certainly NOT taken on in the last two trimesters. Tell me that weekly pregnancy massages are not only necessary but covered by my insurance. In short: please lie outrageously to me.

I feel bad about my actions, I really do. (I have a toddler at home myself, I know how much it sucks to deal with an unreasonable person.) What’s that? Oh, I’m not being unreasonable at all? This is normal behavior and you not only condone it, you encourage it?!? – (See what I made you do there? You’re catching on quickly 😉 )

Please allow me to operate under the delusion that I will be allowed to eat during labor. The next nine months will be a blur of cravings, shoving snacks into my purse like a squirrel saving up nuts for winter and thinking about my next meal. Eating has become my M.O. Yes, yes I know i puked my whole labor with my first child (probably because I snuck in snacks and demanded cinnamon buns the second the contractions started) but that is neither here nor there. In order for me to RSVP to letting your interns watch a human exit my body I need to know there will be food at that party. Better yet, why don’t your interns provide the snacks? Lets make this a potluck. I’m already playing hostess to an 8 lb parasite as it is. Here’s an adorable rhyme to help you remember: if theres no food, I’m in a mood.

I also humbly implore you to take every opportunity available to tell me why my baby is the most advanced, cutest, chart-topping infant you’ve ever been about to lay eyes on. Make me feel as if I am creating the next Ryan Reynolds-faced Albert Einstein (because I totally am, dammit!)

One last thing: If I shit on the table during delivery never speak of it again. I mean it. Never. I’m not ashamed, mind you. I just want you to remember that I held the power in that situation. IF i poop on the table, I did so because I wanted to show you who’s boss. Guess who can’t leave the room? You! Oh? What am I doing? I’m threatening you? Yes. That’s exactly what I’m doing. Please rise to the challenge that is dealing with this pregnant monster with humility, grace and snacks. If for any reason my demands cannot be met then consider the poop thing my last resort. (Please consider it my payback for letting the interns into the birthing suite.)

I look forward to reading to you from my dream journal soon,

Warmest Wishes,

Your Not At All Difficult Favorite Pregnant Patient

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