Emily’s Musings

David and I have been packing our things at a very “Caribbean” pace. I have stuff strewn about all over this tiny house, and really, I’m glad we’re leaving in two days because I SIMPLY COULD NOT HANDLE THE MESS ANY LONGER THAN THAT.

I really hate living out of suitcases, and it’s a little bit more difficult to be organized with a child who needs toys (that we’re not taking home, but can’t give up quite yet) and likes to “help me pack and unpack.”

I had to see one of the island doctors today to get a note that says, “Emily is pregnant. She can fly internationally. She is healthy and fine, and WILL NOT DELIVER IN THE SKY.” Well, it didn’t say that exactly, but that is what it basically says. During my chat with the doc, he was surprised to see noted on my chart the last time I was in for a check up was in January. Apparently, I was supposed to see him (or another doc) every month. I didn’t mention to tell him that I thought it was a TOTAL WASTE OF MY TIME to go down to the clinic, wait in the germ filled waiting room for hours, only to be seen by one of the doctors (probably him) to have my blood pressure checked. Since the clinic doesn’t weigh you (I don’t think they have a scale there) and there is no ultrasound machine, what is the point? David monitors my blood pressure weekly (mostly because he is way more interested in that kind of stuff than I am, and when he tells me the numbers, they have absolutely no meaning to me. He could say, you are one over twenty, and I would say, “Is that good or bad?” Because really, that is all I care about. He may as well tell me my blood pressure in French, because I would understand it about the same) and my blood pressure has always been normal. Even when I was pregnant with Hannah and had swollen feet so badly, I had NORMAL BLOOD PRESSURE.

Before I left the clinic, the doc wanted to check my belly and listen to the heartbeat on a Doppler. As he was pressing my belly in all the uncomfortable places, (trust me, this little guy was ticked, so he kicked him. HARD.) he thought he would mention this to me:

“There is more belly than baby.”

EXCUSE ME? DID I JUST HEAR HIM CORRECTLY?

So I asked him if he was calling me fat.

“Well, I just say it how it is. I am Dutch.”

Well, I hate to break it to you Mr. Dutch doctor, but you NEVER, EVER tell a woman she is fat. ESPECIALLY WHEN SHE IS PREGNANT. Or nursing. Or just big all around. NEVER, EVER, EVER, go to America to practice, because you would never have any patients.

It felt good to say that. And I didn’t even have “telling off remorse” because how could I feel wrong about telling my doc to not call me fat? He felt a little guilty I presume, because when David entered the room (he was out with Hannah running some errands, and popped in for the last part of the visit) he told him what had happened. David tried to pick his jaw up off the floor when the doc recounted our conversation, and all David could say was “Holy Cow! You said that?” And then, David was really thinking, “YOU IDIOT! HOW COULD YOU NOT KNOW THAT YOU DON’T SPEAK TO WOMEN THAT WAY? Because if I were to say that (or heck, even think that) my wife would make my life miserable FOREVER. FOREVER, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!”

So Dutch or not, you do not have a “pass” to tell me what you think about my body or belly size.

Thank goodness the next doctor I have will be in the states.