Yesterday, I had my regular OB check-up. Sean was off and the kids stayed with him, so I was actually able to arrive to my appointment with my clothes clean, hair styled and makeup just so. This is in complete contrast to the days when I have all three kids in tow, following behind my ballooning pregnant body.
I’m usually lucky to get us all out the door, let alone have makeup on my face.
And clothes without some combination of oatmeal and jelly smeared across them? HA! Not to mention the fact that this heat has done a number on my hair – it is usually a frizzy mess these days, unless I take the time and effort to do what it really requires.
Today, I did. And so, I felt cute and sassy waddling into the doctor’s office.
However, once again, I was reminded that I am a geriatric (OB) patient. For those who asked at what age one is lucky enough to be labeled as such, it is 35. For men, it is around 65; obviously not as OB patients, but in general…
I had my regular check-up, which had already been boosted to once a week. But at yesterday’s appointment, the doctor said that he wants to see me twice a week until the baby is born, due to my age and my history of fast labors.
Amazing – just like that, I went from feeling cute and sassy, to feeling like I will soon need a walker and cataract glasses.