How to Torture a Pregnant Woman

I think it’s hilarious when I take one of my children with me to the obstetrician, it’s almost cruel really.

I remember being pregnant for the first time, sitting in the waiting room, having absolutely zero experience of children.  A woman who had returned for her 6 week post-natal check asked me to sit with her brand new baby while she went in to see the doctor.  She vanished behind closed doors before I could splutter a ‘what? Are you mad?’ 

Naturally, as soon as she left the baby began screaming. 

Naturally I had no clue what to do and just left it in the pram. Screaming.

Naturally, by this stage she had her knickers down and was in the middle of a post-baby pap smear.

It was awful and I still resent her assumption that I knew anything about babies just because I happened to be pregnant. 

I have found a less invasive way of horrifying future parents.

I took my four and a half year old to my 24 week check-up, and we sat together in the waiting room.  Well, she sat for about a minute before she was pacing the room, asking if it was our turn next.

‘No dear, there were two others before us. You just have to wait patiently’.

Patient.  Four year old.  Ha ha ha ha ha.

‘I need to do a poo,’ The Bombshell announced to the room.

Stunned silence.  One of the dads wrinkled his nose.

‘Ok sweetie,’ I said smiling on the inside.  I turned to an 8-monther who had just walked through the door and asked if she needed the bathroom to do a pee sample. Her eyes were wide and she just shook her head.  The Bombshell was already hitching up her dress.

I locked us in the toilet much to the Bombshell’s disgust.

‘But I don’t need you Mum, you can go outside if you want,’ she said.

I thought it prudent to stay.

The Bombshell then proceeded to provide a blow by blow (or poo by poo) account of her evacuation.  At the top of her voice.  So everyone in the waiting room could hear every word.

‘One, two, three poos Mum. Ohhh this one’s a bit hard to get out,’ she said wiggling around on the seat. I won’t continue with the verbal outpourings, because one day the Bombshell might read this and hate me forever, but suffice to say, she had plenty to say about her poo.

Finally, we emerged from the toilet and resumed our seats in the waiting room.  I saw one dad snigger, his wife looked mortified and kept rubbing her belly. No one looked me in the eye.

Two minutes later, and after two more ‘is it our turn now’ from the Bombshell, she had fallen silent again. Only the rustle of Marie Claire and Interior Living magazines filled the almost full room.

‘Now I need to do a wee,’ she told the room. This time I sent her alone.

Maybe I will bring the two year old next time.