Going to the OB/GYN is worse.
It was time for our first baby checkup, the one where someone with a medical degree and $100,000 worth of college loans will confirm what we already learned from a $3 stick. When we first arrived, I couldn’t help but notice the other guys sitting in the office’s lounge, waiting for their wives to return. Each one was slouched in his chair with a similar bored look on his face. I hadn’t seen a room full of guys this depressed since the third time they cancelled “Family Guy.”
I joined the club and sat down on what had to be the world’s second most uncomfortable chair, while
And some people think history is boring.
He introduced himself as Dr. … something. I would have listened, but I was too busy thinking about how this man was about to defile my wife. No matter how I spun it in my head, this just didn’t seem right. When a woman pays a guy to poke around down there, it’s called a checkup. When a man pays a woman, it’s called prostitution.
After several minutes of prodding, examining and small talk, he finished up by using the phrase—and I am not making this up—“Lookin’ good down there.” I’d say this was my most angry moment of the day but it wasn’t; that would come later when I had to pay the bill.
Just when I thought I couldn’t take anymore, he led us to a room with a do-hickey that looked eerily similar to the small black-and-white television my parents once owned. He opened a jar and rubbed what looked to be hair gel on
That was it. I couldn’t take it anymore. I rolled up my sleeve and prepared to punch him in his twinkling teeth …
But then I saw it. Right there on the screen. The round tiny blob of white that was the beginnings of our child. It was the most amazing tiny blob of white I had ever seen. Years from now scientists may dispute this, but for that moment—that very special moment—I could swear the blob was wearing a Cincinnati Reds jersey.
With that sonogram, all had been forgiven. The entire drive home all I could think about was how much I’m going to love this child, even more than I love pizza. That’s right, folks … even more than pizza. And, if it comes out a left-handed boy who can throw 98 miles per hour, it’ll move to the top of the list—ahead of bacon.